Hail to the King - The Legends of Erin - Book One
by Paige The Harmony Lover
Summary: In the land of Erin those still loyal to the fallen state of Gryffindor must watch their tongue, less they have them removed from their heads. In the tiny province of Dean, a place found on the borderlands of the State of Slytherin, resides one Hermione Granger. A girl of high intellect whose love of stories threaten the very rule of the Sovereign Kings reign. H/Hr, Harmony.
1. Prologue - The Fall of Gryffindor

**Authors Note** – _Welcome all readers, new, old and faithful to the brand new redesign of Hail to the King. For some of you who remember this work in its original rendition, it was taken down late last year for reasons I was at the time unable to express. You see, writing is not only a passion of mine, it is a pastime I have now managed to hopefully extend into a career, with my first, fully original work SnakePit being released in late this coming summer. In that time however, I felt obligated to the many people who read Hail to the King to continue this epic fantasy FanFiction, as a way of saying thankyou to everyone who has supported me, both in the physical domain and online, and this is my attempt at an acknowledgement. I do hope you enjoy my work, and I look forward to any feedback you may offer. With all the best wishes_ – _**Paige The Harmony Lover**_

Prologue: The Fall of Gryffindor

Chaos reigned throughout the city.

Acrid smoke choked the lungs of both usurper and defender while its body of seering flame licked at the walls of sandstone with its insatiable hunger, igniting the thatch which comprised the shelters, and now trapping the dying citizens of Gryffindor within their own homes. Deaths unbiased touch came to the people of this once fair state, each, be they usurper or defender, cut down in this final, desperate, stand. Men were slaughtered with swift blades or broken by the smash of axe's, women were robbed of their virtues with cold, merciless lust; while with the wailings of their children, mothers were forced to watch as their babes were plucked from their breast, lives shattered against cold, unforgiving stone, or the throats of their little ones severed by swift, cold blades, their innocent cries ceased forever on a gargle of blood.

High atop the mountainous plateau of the Acropolis, within the mighty citadel of Godric's Hollow, Lord James Potter looked out across the devastation which claimed his once beloved city. Tears brimmed in his eyes as he watched his mighty state fall in this final conflict of a needless siege ordained by Lucius Malfoy. As the Sovereign of the militaristic state of Slytherin the Serpentine banner had marched on Gryffindor, where her walls had once protected her people, and her sons had repelled the mightiest army of Erin for more than a decade.

Now, in a single night, it seemed the Gods were against Gryffindor, as her walls had fallen by the claws and hides of dragons, the dark creatures of Slytherin had teamed in through the breach, a rend created in walls that had stood strong for more than a thousand years. And now, as the Sovereign of Slytherin trudged his forces closer towards Godric's Hallow, so the Lord of Gryffindor knew that soon Malfoy would be free to lead his forces across all of Erin in his bid for total conquest.

James heard the warning bells, gripped the rich marble of his handrail as he listened to the cries of his people, each putting up a desperate stand against the invaders as they lay waste to their home. James could not suppress the quiver of grief which touched his soul as he knew his people were slaughtered down in the streets below. Lives ended at the hands of their greatest and most hated enemy.

"Prongs…!" The captain of the guard: Sirius Black, rushed forth into his old friend's chamber, stopping when he saw the dregs of madness grief was slowly evoking within the eyes of his Lord and blood brother. In his arms the captain carried a bundle of blankets, the sound of James young son: Harry, finally breaking through the shade of his grief and returning the child's sire to some semblance of reality.

"My son…" James breathed, stepping forth and kissing the brow of the screaming infant, his very words were rich with affection. Beyond the walls of the Hollow the chaos and screams of his people drew ever closer to the citadel. "Watch over him, Sirius."

"Pro… James you can't stay here, you'll be killed!" Sirius stated, his voice breaking as he held the child tight in his arms. Though the words of his captain were wise, and though he knew they ran fast with a myriad of truth, James Potter, Lord of Gryffindor, shook his head, drawing his silver, ruby hilted, longsword and presenting it to his friend.

"You know what this is, Sirius," Lord Potter hissed, the sword flashing with a hauntingly beautiful sheen of crimson and gold, a ghost light which could be seen shining between the two men and the young child. "So long as this sword stays with a Gryffindor then hope shall remain for us. Go, Padfoot, take this sword and my child, the fate of our people lies with you now."

Sirius gazed from the Sword of Gryffindor to his boyhood friend. They didn't have long, the enemy would be upon them swiftly, but the thought of abandoning his friend, his family, to death went against the very fabric of what it meant to be born of this city. Gryffindor's never retreated, Gryffindor's never abandoned their comrades, Gryffindor's never surrendered.

Lord Potter saw the reluctance in his friend, a sight which caused him to slam the hilt of his sword, painfully, into the man's chest.

"Go!" James ordered, practically throwing Sirius away from him, emphasising the seriousness of his command with a bellow of his voice. It was here, with these words of flight. That Sirius knew his friend would not follow him, knew that he would stand strong in the face the enemy with courage and valour in his heart. Sirius grasped the sword tight in his hand, the cries of the infant Harry drawing a surge of affection from deep within the captain. The crash of magic or the smash of a ballista broke over the sound of war from beyond the walls of the Hallow, and Sirius knew, for the boys sake if not his own pride, that they must escape.

Sirius rushed towards his Lord's concealed passage. He tapped five times upon the bricks with the tip of the sword, chanting in a soft, fair tongue as soon a single archway appeared, leading forth into a corridor of shadows, broken only by the ghostly blue sheen of a single, arcane, torch.

Sirius cast his gaze back towards his friend. James met his gaze, followed by a single salute. The captain returned the gesture before placing the sword at his hip, freeing his hand to carry the light source deep into the darkness of the secret passageway.

The bricks returned to the sight of a solid wall, sealing off his child's cries and leaving James alone to his fate and a thankful sigh escaped his lips.

He stood silent, waiting for his enemy's presence, though he had feared that Sirius would have had some crazy surge of mania and would have stayed behind with him. The war of Erin was slowly winding down, and the victor was soon to be named. Lucius Malfoy had won. Slytherin had won. It was the will of the Gods. But his child survived as did the Sword of Gryffindor and these two things alone made dying in the face of his foe a much brighter ordeal. Knowing that somewhere, at some unknown time. His son may rise up and win.

The doors of the high chamber burst open and a woman's scream resounded. James stiffened as his wife: Lily, was flung forth before his foe where she crashed at the feet of the now defeated lord.

"Lily… Lily darling." James said tenderly, kneeling to assist his lady to her feet. Her clothes were torn in places of ill modesty, and her face and nose were bloody. She swallowed, shaking her head at her husband's silent inquest. James sighed in relief at this gesture. If they were going to die, then the Lord and Lady of Gryffindor would not die molested or on their knees begging for mercy.

Leading his chosen force into the chamber of his enemy the Sovereign Ruler of Slytherin strolled forth, armoured in silver and trimmed in emerald green. His helm was fashioned in the shape of a serpent, it's fangs bared, while at his side he carried a long, ornate rapier. A wealth of pale hair fell from the back of his helm and his grey eyes were cold and cunning. Lord Potter knew this man, even if his helm prevented full sight of his future killer.

"This war has been a blight on all of Erin, Potter," Lucius Malfoy, Sovereign King of Slytherin spoke with chill contempt. "All you had to do was accept the inevitable and your people could have been spared."

James Potter's lips curled in a mocking sneer.

"And serve a tyrant like you?" spat James Potter hacking spit at the feet of his foe. Even now, in the face of total annulation, he spoke with pure, unwavering, courage. "We of Gryffindor fight not for false glory, we fight to stand against people like you. You snakes who fight merely for power. Fifty thousand worms brought here to fight for one man's greed."

Lucius Malfoy's face grew dark behind his helm. He leered at James, hissing forth like the snake which adorned on his brow.

"Careful Potter… I hold your life in my hands."

"My life is my own, as every citizen of this city's life is theirs. And I tell you something now, Malfoy. No son of Gryffindor shall ever submit to your command!"

"Then every son of Gryffindor… shall die."

Lucius drew his rapier, three more Slytherin's drawing their blades as they surrounded the two nobles.

The Potters death was nothing more than cold butchery.

All the while, amidst the chaos and anarchy of the battlefield, a single rider fled the chaos of fallen city, stationed on the back of a swift, black, steed. He was robed in black, his hood pulled high over his head, as the rider held a screaming infant tight against the strength of his chest.


	2. Adventures of the Mind

Chapter 1: Adventures of the Mind

 _Fifteen Years Later_

A springtime breeze sifted through the veil of trees which comprised the boarder belt of The Forest of Dean. Consisting of a large woodland band of evergreen firs, woody ficus and towering oak trees; the forest had survived long before the four founders had come to Erin. It had grown tall, lush, and during the changing seasons one would be met with its many differing shades of colour as it provided one of the most tranquil, and important, locations in all of the Holding state.

The tiny village of Dean was but one of the many towns, dwellings and even cities which relied on the constant replenishment of the forest. Comprised of stout, hearty, building the village was a place where their log huts were renowned a stalwart in the art of construction. Many possessed shingled rooves, the slate mined from the Kyhs Hills to the far east of Slytherin Empire. It was said that Goblin's mined those hills, though the lack of any actual acknowledgement of such fanciful tales had relegated this rumour to the unfortunate place known as Hearsay.

However, one person in Dean did enjoy the discussion of Goblin's, Dwarves and even of the hellish Orcs which were said to now comprise a whole third of the Sovereign Kings army. Hermione Granger sat on her haunches beneath the leaves of her favourite oak tree, absently clouting a bedside quilt. Comprised of coarse wool and very little cotton the quilt was far from patchwork or rushed. In fact, ever thread she stitched was placed with a adept grace, her needlework good enough alone that it would have brought a true Highborn lady to tears. However, it was not only for the quality of her skills that had her name whispered in hushed voices throughout Dean. No. For while her thread was even and her crosses were centred, it was of the second pastime she partook in whilst preforming this dated and womanly task that found her expressed and branded as a misfit in regular society.

For Hermione Granger was reading.

A small, leather bound, book of pealing age, sat propped open beside her right side. Her eyes danced along the small, intricately weaved, tale as they had seemingly a thousand times before. It was seen as a mockery of tradition throughout the empire for any woman to be learned. The Sovereign King had decreed that throughout all the realms he may hold, no woman, girl or infant may be educated or perform tasks other than those assigned by law from his own court.

Girls were not permitted to read. Ladies had no place conducting themselves in the affairs of men. Women were not to permitted to think of themselves with the same esteem and position as the _Men_ of Erin. Or so had deemed The King. It was with an air of prideful defiance that Hermione took her pleasure in reading and in spouting her education around town by carrying with her the books she loves so much at every opportunity she could.

Of all the three books Hermione possessed this one was by far her favourite, a tale of the valour and might of the warrior Tristen Devar, as he fought against the might of the State of Slytherin, ten years before the Fall of Gryffindor.

 _Karlea knelt in lengths of towering reed grass, parting the growth to offer sight to the forces who slowly marched on the Kingdom of Gryffindor. Concealed by nature Karlea felt her heart clench as she watched the many men, wagons and beasts who began to enter the only roadway which connected Gryffindor to the Realm of Slytherin._

 _There slave drivers cracked their whips with such ferocity that it's sound could heard even high atop the mountainous outcropping Karlea and her friend observed from. Her body began to tremble. There were so many, a force of over thirty thousand men, and amongst them the vile Shades of Slytherin. Folk who had abandoned the true teachings of arcane law to corrupt the natural order with their own twisted depravity._

" _At ease," Tristen said, placing a comforting hand upon Karlea's own. Her eyes caught his, saw the light of conflict and fire there that had always served to make Tristen Devar one of the most feared and renowned warriors in all of Erin. Karlea gripped his hand desperately, feeling his course glove caress her own smooth palm._

 _They had been friends for so long, yet even now Karlea could not suppress the air of longing she was sure Tristen felt resonating from her. However, Tristen was a Magi, a warrior of the Order and Karlea was of common blood. There could be no room for love or passion between them. Though many a night Karlea longed to know the reasons why._

" _There are so many of them." Karlea whispered gently, feeling her eyes sting at the rising plumes of smoke lifting from the many fires, torches or plague beds that littered this convoy. Tristen actually chuckled at the awe in her words._

" _This is not so many, it would take more than fifty thousand men to break down the walls of Gryffindor. Little more than an exhort for myself."_

 _Tristen drew his bejewelled longsword from its place beside his waist. It was a glorious sight, forged from Uranian steel. It was said to possess an edge sharper than any razor in all of Erin, and its length would never blemish or erode. Magic had been used to create this sword, and as Karlea observed the shimmering gold and ruby light which danced across the body of the blade, it was clear to see why this sword was feared throughout all of the Slytherin Kingdom and was a hope to all of Erin._

 _Tristan began to stand._

" _What are you doing?" Karlea hissed, beckoning franticly for Tristen to return to the growth, but the warrior merely smiled and held out a hand for her to join him. Trust filled the heart of the common companion and she allowed her friend to draw her to her feet before placing the sword upon her shoulder._

" _You are a fine woman, Karlea. Brave, wise and noble. It only pains me that my next act may see us parted for eternity."_

" _What do you mean?"_

 _Tristan took her free hand in hers, caressed the crown of her hand with his thumb before all resolve abandoned him. Pulling her tight against his frame Tristain slammed his lips against hers in a kiss not of friendship, not of jest of companionship, but of pure, passionate love._

 _Karlea was shocked at first, overwhelmed by the sheer fervent nature of this kiss. But her eyes slowly closed and she allowed herself to full utterly, and completely into this exhibition of affection._

 _Their kiss ended in a time to quickly for Karlea._

 _Her breath was quickened, her heart rapidly pounding beneath her breasts and she was pleased to see Tristan too had felt the same._

 _Amiya, Tristan's swift steed whinned in protest of the encroaching army and the two friends were forced to accept that this could be their final moment together._

" _Go… Karly." Tristan ordered turning now towards the goat path they had followed to observe the marching army. "Warn the King. At the narrowest point of this pass there is little room for even three of these wretches to walk abreast. Ride. The swifter you ride the sooner you'll be able to bring aid to relieve me. Fly. And be safe."_

" _You…" Karlea caught her protest before she spoke it. Tristan was right. Someone needed to inform the King of the impending threat to their nation, and Tristan was the only warrior, the only Magi powerful enough to even make a stand against such overwhelming odds, let alone do it in single combat._

" _Tristan…? Gods guide your blade and their wills protect you." Tristian acknowledged the blessing, watched the woman he loved rush to his steed and sling herself into the saddle. Amiya wheeled about, Karlea ready to race back to the kingdom, ready to rally the troops, ready to bring help for her dearly beloved Tristan Devar."_

"Hermione?!" A woman's voice suddenly resounded across the depths of Hermione's imaginings, drawing a start of fright from the teenage girl and causing her book to go awry. She cursed, her stitching suddenly wild and unruly as she turned to see her mother slowly wandering up from the forest depths towards her.

Belena Granger was a fine and fair woman, blessed with short, pixie like, hair and a face not yet so beaten down by life that she could not place herself in the same esteem as those of a younger generation. Hermione loved her deeply, and she smiled graciously as she set down her sowing and offered her mother a formal greeting.

"Blessings Mamma, I am sorry for taking so long." Hermione tried to sound strong, to sound in a tone her mother would be proud of. Belena smiled gently, eyes traveling from her dishevelled child to the fine quilt and finally to her book. She sighed and shook her head in exasperation.

"Reading again, Hermione? Honestly you must have read that book a thousand times."

"Two hundred and forty-three times, actually." Hermione beamed with pride as she held out her book and presented it to her mother. It had been a gift to her mother from the man she had once called husband. Only he was now long departed, cast away from their family for his crimes of infidelity. It was a crime Hermione often wondered the reasoning behind, why he had committed such a terrible act of betrayal? However, any such sin was not without its benefits, and it had helped forge a bond between mother and daughter unrivalled in all of Dean.

Belena took the book from her child and began to peruse through the pages. She, unlike the laws of the land dictated, was also a learned and educated woman, something that helped prevent fraud or deceit from traders as they marketed in the coming trade seasons.

"Oh… such a grand imagination you have Hermione. You are a treasure to all of us."

Hermione blushed crimson at her mother's unexpected praise.

"Really…?"

Belena nodded at her daughter before offering her back the book she loved so much.

"I see big things in store for you, my little seedling. Just keep dreaming big and do not buckle beneath the weight the world will put on you." Hermione frowned, confused.

"I don't…"

"Not yet," Belena said, leaning down to kiss her daughter affectionately at the brow. "But you will. Now come, supper is nearly ready and we have to prepare for the spring trade."

"Can I bring my quilt?"

"Of course." Hermione's mother raised her brows towards her. "What else will you be selling in your first trade venture?"

"Really!?" Hermione squealed in excitement, rushed to gather up her work. She began to follow her mother out of the forest and towards their awaiting homestead, pleased that her mother had seen such an improvement in her craft that she would be willing to sell it in her next trade venture. What could she possibly get for this quilt? Half a cent? Maybe a penny? The thought of such riches began to run rampant through her mind and the prospect of fresh, new books to read. She could almost smell the parchment paper, a scent long removed from her own collection, but it was soon replaced by the smell of freshly brewed tea, hot stew and the scent of cooking fires, as she and her mother exited the Forest of Dean and came onto the settling of their home.

That night, after Hermione had eaten her fill of her mother's rich vegetable braise, she sat up reading through the final pages of her tale, but her mind was filled with thoughts of the city. Of Gaela, and her fine, fair streets.

Hermione had only heard tales of the city from travels, which many said was little more than a glorified town in comparison to true cities like Attor, High Seat of the Sovereign King. However, even Hermione could not even dream of seeing Attor. So Gaela would be her first true taste of a city, and of city life.

Hermione blew out her candle when the final page of her book was turned. She observed the crest that had been embossed into the leather, a single lions head opened in a roar. She had no idea what it meant, but she felt courage every time gazed upon this image.

The young girl set down her beloved book, observed her seat where her quilt resided, and tucked her arm under her pillow and drifted off into gentle sleep.


	3. Call of the Bard

Chapter 2: Call of the Bard

At the first ride of dawn the sun streamed into Hermione's bedchamber, soft and caressing against her skin and awaking her with a groan of annoyance. Hermione turned over, pulling her pillow over her head and omitting a frustrated yawn as she tried to go back to sleep.

' _Why? Why now_!?' she asked, internally scolding forces beyond even a Magi's control, for it seemed the Sun God had awoken her right before the climax of her dream. She tried to recall her nightly imaginings, yet all that her fleeting recollections could remember was that the vague silhouette of a young man with intense green eyes. She rolled over, wanting to sleep again, to see the handsome gentlemen as he was about too…

Hermione's fingertips brushed softly against her lips.

"He'd been about to kiss me?" she said aloud, almost willing to Gods to explain to her why she was so excited, and why her stomach suddenly danced with a swarm of butterflies. She tried to remember his face. She knew he was handsome, that much she could easily recollect, but there was no memory of facial features, no jaw to seek in her waking days, no nose to draw her gaze, not even… a scar. But there had been a scar. She was sure of it. But it seemed the Gods were merely toying with her, not even letting her remember something so easily recognizable as that.

"Ohhh… You!" Hermione cursed long and low before lashed out in sheer frustration. She pounded her bed with her flaying fists before beginning to laugh aloud at the sheer absurdity of it all. Why? Why couldn't she even remember his scar?

"Honey Bun? You okay?" Hermione ceased in her attack of her sleeping cot the moment her mother's voice issued from the hall. She turned over, saw her bearer poke her head into her bed chamber and all thoughts of frustration were instantly dissolved. She smiled brightly at her mother, now beginning stretching out her body in confirmation that the dream would not return and that the waking day was now to begin

"Ergh… Greetings Mamma!" Hermione said, feeling her back crack within her before she rolled her shoulders, the dream now passing with the prospects of a new day. "Yes, just a weird dream, that's all."

Belena Granger stepped towards her daughter, a look of concern on her face as she placed the crown of her fingers against Hermione's brow.

"You don't seem fevered, Honey Bun. Are you sure you are okay?"

Hermione protested with embarrassment at her mother's mollycoddling, before pushing her hand away from her brow.

"Yes, mamma! I'm okay. It was just a weird dream. That's all."

Belena's face softened as she smiled at her child, itself a sweet, affectionate, gesture.

"Dreams are good, Mya," Belena said, speaking in her wise and formal tone. "They show what the heart truly wants. But be careful, sometimes dreams are too big even for someone as grand as you."

"I'm not grand, mamma!" Hermione protested, swinging herself over and refusing to listen to her mother's wisdom any more. "I'm just me, now can I _please_ go back to sleep?"

"You can…" Belena said gently, standing and drifting towards the door. She stopped just before it, holding onto the frame of the entrance and cast her gaze back into the chamber. "But you'd miss the first spring trade. I'm leaving for Gaela within the hour."

At these words, all thoughts of tedium rushed free from Hermione.

She turned over, wheeling actually, her face now alight with joy and delight.

"It's today?" Belena nodded, smiling brightly at her daughter's obvious excitement.

"Yep, the wagons already loaded. All that's left is your quilt."

Hermione squealed, rushing from the bed and hugging her mother tight around the waist. She began to babble her enthusiasm so pleased that her mother had been true. She was going! She was going to Gaela.

When finally Hermione had calmed down enough to listen Belena Granger instructed her daughter on the correct garb to wear, on taming her wild hair, and the art of mystique and presentation, something she had been teaching her daughter since the earliest days of her youth. Soon, after Hermione had disciplined her hair to sit right, thanks to many a sweep of her mother's bone-handled comb. When she had adorned her best dress and a smile of delight was now fixed upon her face, both mother and daughter set out on the rough dirt road towards the city, towards adventure, towards trade, towards Hermione's the first steps into the real world.

* * *

Gren reclined in his lounging chair which rested on the porch of his home, as he watched the pretty girls of Gaela frantically scurry about in preparation for the first spring trade. What the hell was wrong with them? Didn't they see that no matter how furiously they tried to get ready for the coming patrons they would be no better off at the end?

For Gren hard work and the need to provide for his family was something the gentleman had never needed to do. He had been born into the affluence of money, his father a respected politician who was soon to be mayor of Gaela, less the fall elections go drastically against him. His son, or so Gren's father had once requested, was to follow in his footsteps, maybe become a notary or even a judge. However, the prospect of such… he shuddered at the thought of dealing with other people's problems. Gren had more important things to worry about, like which fair maid would be lining the sheets of his rented bed this evening, while his wife slaved away at home waiting for her _beloved_ husband to come home.

Gren's grey eyes racked predatorily over the bodies of many of these pretty little things, many of whom had been his bed mate on one or maybe a few more occasions. If they were lucky. He sighed and lolled further back in his chair, its plush cushions struggling to provide comfort against the sheer burden of his laziness.

What was the point? There was no one in town he could not have. With his wealth, his charm, not to mention he was quite clearly a sheer physical specimen, girls often draped themselves before him in a desperate attempt to win his heart. Where was the fun? The spark? Where were the real women? In truth Glen doubted they even existed, not in Erin anyway.

Gren's brow suddenly furrowed as he watched a single peasant cart roll up into the market square. The woman at the reigns was fetching, but it was to her companion that his hungry eyes flew too.

She was stunning! Deep, chestnut, curls that looked as though they should be wild and carefree framed a fair, beautiful, face. Her soft brown eyes were as rich as cocoa and her clearly recent adulthood had blossomed her into a fine specimen of a woman. Gren felt his loins tighten in a way he had not felt in so long. Who was she? He was intrigued, and he knew, right here, right then, that it was this woman who would be his bed mate tonight.

* * *

"Get everything ready for the stool, okay Hermione? I'm going to stake our pledge for a trade spot."

"Yes, Mamma!" Hermione said, already beginning to unpack the wagon as her mother strolled off towards the records hut. Hermione already knew that it was required of all trade-folk to pay a tax for the renting of a spot in the market. Some were able to afford spots all year round, so in demand were their wears. However most folk only had enough money to afford a rented location once every season, both found in the spring and fall.

It was unfortunate that Hermione's mother could only come during those times, for as her daughter looked around at the sheer vastness of the city Hermione knew she would one day love to live here, or maybe somewhere even more beauteous.

"Hello… there." Hermione gasped in fright as suddenly a tall, burly, man with a thick neck and idiocy in his eyes, strolled up to her from the side of the cart. Hermione scolded herself for her internal evaluation. She did not even know this man, she could not begin to think of everyone she met as idiots, surely not?

"Oh… he… hello sir." Hermione said gently, not knowing what really she should say. Her mother had drilled her in the prospects of trade, Hermione had read conversations between people in her book. Yet she was unaccustomed to talking to strangers and this brawny man intimidated her.

Hermione nodded in greeting, turning to lift a heavy box of fabric from the cart and beginning to prepare for her mother's return. She could use the man's help but he merely leaned causally against the rear of the wagon and continued to watch her work.

"I've not seen you in town before?" The man's voice was overly manly, exaggerated and egocentric. Hermione frowned and tried to ignore him.

"No. This is my first time here." Hermione spoke in a tone that tried to portray she did not want to talk, but the man merely continued on in his instant babbling.

"Really, pretty girl like you should come to town more often. Maybe I could show you around?" Hermione smiled at the man's words, but an air of caution stayed her acceptance. She wanted to see Gaela, wanted to experience such a fair and fine city. But she was sure this man had not the same understanding of culture or partook in the same desires as she did. It was clear this man enjoyed a much more _carnal_ pleasure.

"No… No, thank you." Hermione said gently, trying not to hurt this man's feelings. "Now please, I must get back to work. My mother will be back soon and we are trading."

"Oh dear… how ungracious of me." Gren said, sounding overly surprised at his own revelation. "A little thing like you should not be lifting such heavy things. Here, let me help you unload."

Hermione wanted to protest, wanted to insist that she did not _want_ this man's help. But a cheeky thought entered her mind and she smiled gratefully and allowed him to carry down the boxes Hermione would not have been able to unload without her mother present. The man was freakishly strong, his vascular biceps barely straining beneath the weight of even their most stock full trunk. He graciously helped her set up her stool and Hermione's rigid posture began to soften. Though an air of caution still existed within her.

Gren tried to hide his groan of boredom as he listened to this girl, Hermione? Murmur on about her trade supplies and foolishness like _art_ and _literature_. He had never read a book in his life, and this girls resistance to his charms was annoying him. But the sweetest of victories were always the ones that involved the hardest battles, and he grinned within when he saw her edged demeanour soften with his fanned interest in this dreary conversation.

' _Got you'_ he pledged internally. He knew when a woman had given in, had submitted to her carnal desires and as he watched her unwrap a single, seemingly special, quilt, he moved in for the kill.

"Ergh…" he cleared his throat in a gesture of nervousness. "Helda?"

"Hermione!" She corrected for the fourth time today. Gren cursed internally.

"Yes, of course, I'm sorry. Might I ask you to accompany me to the local tavern this evening? They have some excellent-"

"Oh look!" Hermione stated in surprise, completely oblivious to his impending advance. Gren could have snapped the girl like a twig at the sheer frustration of being ignored. What was wrong with this girl? No one ignored him, especially not some whelp of a peasant girl with more beauty than brains to realize that her perfect man was in front of her.

Gren controlled his temper, but watched on in hopelessness as Hermione rushed off towards a collection of bards who were gathered outside the local theater. The lead was a fine, golden haired woman who sang with a fair and beautiful voice. She sang songs of love, told stories of great adventure and the wonders of Erin's past.

Gren scoffed in disgust as he watched the admiration Hermione had for the storyteller. One day she'd look at him the say way.

The storyteller finished her tale with many an applause from the gathering crowd. She smiled, holding out a small purse as coins of bronze and silver were placed within. Tokens of the masses appreciation. Hermione wanted to put money in the woman's claim purse, but as she came before her Hermione could only turned away, sheepish and embarrassed. It was only then that Hermione saw that the woman was blind.

The female bard frowned before offering the young girl a smile.

"You need not spare what you do not have, little sister." The storyteller spoke softly, but Hermione couldn't help herself.

"No… please. I wanted to give you something. Your stories are so wonderful… I just… I don't have any money."

Gren smirked in triumph and tried to reach into his pocket for his change purse. If it was money she wanted then money she would-

"We need not gold or silver as just payment, little sister." The bard said with an air of mystery too her voice. Gren froze in surprise just as he was about to pull out his purse. Not another lunatic.

"Please…" Hermione asked, desperate to understand. "Tell me how can I say thank you for your songs?"

The crowd slowly began to disburse, their interest now waning while those who stayed offering murmurings of confusion, watching as the sightless bard placed a comforting her arm around Hermione's shoulders.

"I see you have the light of dreams within you, little sister. I see you wish to sing. Please, repay us with an exhibition of your own gifts.

"What?" Hermione gasped in surprise. What did she mean? The woman was blind? How could she… all logic soon faded as the realization of what the woman had said suddenly struck her. She was no bard! All she had was the songs and tales she had read in her stories. Fear suddenly struck her, a fear of embarrassment, a fear of humiliation and she began to tremble with the terror of stage fright.

"Breathe… little one." The bard whispered in her ear, her voice instantly quailing Hermione's impending panic. "Breathe… and sing."

Hermione closed her eyes, praying to the Gods for any intervention. But the crowd before her seemed huge, and they waited expectantly for Hermione to begin.

' _Breathe_ …' she heard the bard's words in her head, which she did. She breathed, moistened her throat, and offered her voice in song.

 _Our hero, our hero claims a warrior's heart  
I tell you, I tell you the Dragonborn comes_

Suddenly the musicians behind Hermione erupted into a strident and pounding drumbeat. She started, shocked that they had even begun to play. She looked around her, saw the people already beginning to smile and cheer as the bard beside her erupted forth in a cry, gesturing for a rally of encouragement for Hermione.

 _Dovahkiin, Agh!_

Empowered Hermione began to continue the bards gesture, uniting the crowd into a series of claps and cheers, they of whom returned the excitement with their own roars of power and motivation

 _Dovahkiin, Agh!_

Hermione began to sing in full earnest and with a confidence now brewing within her.

 _Our hero, our hero claims a warrior's heart  
I tell you, I tell you the Dragonborn comes  
With a Voice wielding power of the ancient Nord art  
Believe, believe the Dragonborn comes…_

The song, unknown by Hermione, was an ancient and powerful call to arms, a pledge of hope to the people that the evils of the world were soon to be defeated. To Hermione this was but one of the many songs she had read in her tales, but the bard who watched her saw the light of hope in this child, a nimbus of promise around this young girl. She maybe sightless in the eyes of the masses, but she knew how to _see_ , and as she watched this girl sing in cheer and praise, the bard knew this song had chosen her, not the singer who now sang it.

 _The dragons, the dragons have shadowed the sun  
Beware, beware the Dragonborn comes  
It's an end to the evil, of all Skyrim's foes  
You'll know… you'll know… the Dragonborn's come_

Both the musicians and the crowd erupted in a burst of encouragement, Hermione's voice raw, untrained, but beautiful and filled with passion. She now began to gesture, really getting into her roll now as bard and entertainer, even if it was only for this one, fleeting, moment.

The people clapped and applauded, wanting more, and Hermione gave them more with the next and final verse.

 _Our hero, our hero claims a warrior's heart  
I tell you, I tell you the Dragonborn comes  
With a Voice wielding power of the ancient Nord art  
Believe, believe the Dragonborn comes_

The musicians continued to beat their drums, Hermione now gesturing that they too be acknowledged. It was an act of kindness that displayed to the bard, if anything, this young girl's truly precious heart. She smiled, her own musicians now winding down, exhaling one final cry of _Dovahkiin_ before they ceased in their song and Hermione bowed low, stunned, exhausted, but feeling more alive than she ever had before.

The crowd erupted in praise and appreciation, tossing coins of silver, bronze, and even a few golden crowns at her feet. Gratitude flooded from Hermione, blowing kisses in thankfulness to the crowd before she began to cease and gather up the now long discarded money.

Finally, when the crowd accepted that there would be no more songs, the bard approached Hermione with a grace seemingly alien to one of her condition.

"You sing well, little sister."

"Tha… thank you!" Hermione offered the bard her money, speaking that it was rightly hers and the musicians who supported her song. However, the woman merely smiled and ruffled Hermione's once perfectly tame curls.

"No, little sister. That money is yours, your song was all the payment we needed."

Hermione felt tears well in her eyes. She looked around, hoping to see her mother, but she was not back from trade agreements, and the thought of Glen was dusted completely from her mind.

Realizing that she need to get back to trade, Hermione thanked the bard once more and rushed back to prepare, unaware that from the comfort of a cafe table, a single, green eyed, man observed her from afar, a fine smile touching the tips of his handsome face.

 ** _Authors Note_** – _The song used in this chapter is called The Dragonborn Comes. It is a signature song to the videogame Skyrim, a feature in the Elder Scrolls franchise, and serves as a great deal of inspiration for this story and the world of Erin. The actual rendition of the song however comes from the YouTube singing sensation Karliene Reynolds, of whom I am a massive fan and often listen to her work for inspiration. I own no rights to the song and they belong solely to both Bethesda Game Studios and Karliene. The use of which is nothing more than a tribute to their work._


	4. The Shade of Pleasure

Chapter Three: The Shade of Pleasure

Hermione's first visit to Gaela had been all she could have expected of such a distant and glorious place, that and so much more. She and her mother now sat in the front of their textile wagon, their strong mules drawing the cart forth, while in the back their depleted stock rattled in their restraints, now offered a much more spacious packing location.

Hermione sat, absently caught up in her instant babbling to her mother, speaking of the joys she had found when her voice had taken flight in the middle of the square. She continued to tell the tale of the blind Bard's praise, repeating how she had encouraged Hermione to share in the gift she had wanted to express since long into her youth. The resulting payment of that moment of free liberty had brought Hermione three brand new books, books she now skimmed through and inhaled that fresh parchment scent. It was a delightful fragrance, something that had always brought joy to the young and excitable girl.

Beside her Belena Granger smiled graciously at her daughter's words, the eagerness and joy of her child doing much to warm her heart, though despite her gaiety all she could offer to her treasured teen were vague words of praise, approval, and delight found for her daughter's endeavours. It was clear to her that Hermione was shaded by her own pleasures, which was something her mother was pleased for. She did not want her child to understand how deeply troubled her guardian was. Contrary to the assumptions of her daughter Belena and her family had just experienced an extremely _poor_ trading season.

Where Hermione had made quite a few coins for the delights found in her singing, her mother had only made a slight profit on the sale of a vastly depleted number of textiles. It had been a poor season for blankets, throws and even their raiment was in much less demand. Most of the items she had sold went for a less than an even price, without much to show in the form of a profit. The biggest lost had come to a large and pompous gentleman who had haggled pitilessly over their largest trunk of stock. Belena had tried everything, tried all her tricks, her charms and her most ruthless bluffs, but something in this man's demeanour had told her he would not be willing to meet her even. She wondered what had happened to him to make him so angry? Particularly at her, an honest trader. In the end Belena had accepted a loss of almost a quarter of the price of her wares.

Under a regular trading season the normally tough and resolved Belena would not have even entertained the offer of this man. But the trade day had been hard, and circumstances she could not explain to her daughter had only assisted the man in forcing her to accept his offer. Her family needed _something_ in the guise of capital; they could not very well buy meat with a mere blanket or a jacket in spring. Winter maybe, but that season was not for a great number of months, and during these months of spring rains and summer suns only gold and silver kept food in their bellies and the rent master's from seizing their homes.

Belena had nearly cried as she watched the brawny gentleman carry off her trunk of textiles, only Hermione returning from the Ceallach with her three new volumes kept her from exhibiting fury and frustration. Her deceit had not ended there. Hermione was so happy with her profit and purchases during the day that her mother had even told her that she had sold her daughter's quilt for a small profit. Hermione had been so happy after her fortunate escapade with the bard that Belena simply could not bring herself to damage that joy, especially with the news that the beautiful little coverlet her daughter had worked so hard to create had barely attracted a glance from customers. She had given Hermione a small cut from her purse, her child so happy with her first trading day.

In truth, the quilt was now folded up deep in the depths of their stock trunk, beneath a pile of unsold rags, a place where Hermione's lovely blanket did not belong, but a place her mother knew she would never find it.

It had hurt to lie to her daughter the pain found not so much the deceit, nor the loss of money she had given to her child, but more from the fear that lie had now evoked. The Granger's needed that money to keep them in safe, fed and watered. They had no crops to plough, no seeds to sow. The trade season was their only means of survival, and soon, if Belena could not keep up the payments on their homestead the rent master would free their property of its doors and allow the vagrants in to... she shuddered at the thought of this terrible state of affairs.

Belena absently weighed the money in her purse. It was a troubling disposition.

"Mamma! Are you listening?" Hermione scolded, snapping her mother out of her internal conflict, startling her and drawing her gaze back towards her daughter.

"What…? Oh, sorry honey? I'm just so happy for you." Belena lied. Hermione beamed and took up her new books.

"I know! These new books are so interesting."

"Maybe you should read them? Save you talking to a fence post like me." Hermione scowled at her mother's disparaging of herself.

"You're not a fence post Mamma!" Hermione stated swatting at her mothers' arm scoldingly. "You are beautiful, and kind, and I love you."

"I love you too, Honey Bun." Belena said, the only true words she had told her since Gaela. She smiled graciously at her daughter's admiration, but an internal scolding continued to plague the elder woman and chip away at her pride.

' _You don't love her enough to keep a roof over her head, though. Do you?_ ' Belena's internal thoughts mocked her love with vicious falsities.

"Shut up!" She hissed, low and sharp to empty air. Hermione smiled up from her books, wondering clear in her face. Had her mother said something?

Belena raised her fetching eyebrows at her child, her personal pains lost to her daughter as she pursued the pages of her books. Belena turned her gaze back to the road, absently caressing Hermione's hair with a gentle brush of her hand.

' _She has enough money to pay the rent._ ' Belena instantly scolded herself for this terrible contemplation. Belena had no doubt that Hermione would help her with her payments should she ask for her assistance. But then, what kind of mother would that make her? Hermione had earned that money through her hard work and gifts. She wasn't even old enough to own a homestead of her own yet, woman though she was. No, Belena had a duty as her mother to provide for her daughter. She would not beg her child for assistance, no matter how much she knew Hermione would want to help. For the sake of her daughter's admiration, if not for Belena's own pride. If she could not pay the rent… there was always Odhert, though the prospect of obtaining a loan from that bastard of a shark was a notion even she did not cherish.

"Could you sing me something, little dove?" Belena requested of her child, needing something, anything, to keep her from bursting into tears.

Hermione beamed with pride, setting down her books to the safe perch beside her and smiling at her mother.

"Are you sure?" Hermione asked, unsure if her bearer was jesting. But Belena's eyes merely glinted with pleasure and she winked at her child.

"Of course,… Please, little dove. I was not privy to your display this morning. Please, let me share in your gift."

Hermione swallowed, moistening her throat, and began to croon in her beautiful, charming voice once again. This time for someone so much more important than the people of Gaela. This time for the pleasure of her mother. The song was an old Erin folk song, one Belena remembered her father singing to her when she herself was a little girl. It was a song she had often recited beside Hermione's bedside when troubled, poorly or when she needed cheer. It seemed that Hermione even knew her mother well enough so that she would sing this song to her in a moment of her own woes and needs.

Belena settled their mules into a steady pace, wisps of breeze catching the belt of trees beside them and sifting through soft dark hair, as both mother and child continued on their journey, the youngling serenading her mother with the ancient number: The Skye Boat Song.


	5. The Woman of Balnain

Chapter Four: The Woman of Balnain

In the local tavern known as the Oakveil three men sat in quiet leisure, two of companionship and good will, the other isolated and engaged with an activity far cry from the other pairs more, peaceful, pastime.

A fine man, with a wealth of raven hair which fell beyond his shoulders, he sat with a fine sword of silver steel across his lap. The sword was glorious, not the weapon his destiny had once deemed he bear, no, he had not yet earned the right to possess such a weapon. But it was a fine forgery, given to him in the hopes of maintaining good will and confidence in the dwindling hearts of Erin's free people.

With long, streaking, caresses Harry Potter ran the blade across with his metal file, itself the first stages of preparation for sharpening his weapon. It was this, if not for the deceitful cheapness found in his weapons jewels, the would proclaim to all of Erin that he was not in possession of his rightful inheritance. The Sword of Gryffindor was not of sword steel, but of Star Iron, a metal so valuable that only the Goblin forges could melt it, and whose hammers and spells had forged the blade for the very first founder of Erin. Harry's ancestor, Godric Gryffindor.

Alone in his recollections, Harry's gaze drifted to his peripherals sighting his two closest companions: Ron Weasley and Dean Thomas. Ron sat with his lute cradled across his knee, fingers plucking the strings with slow, poignant, tones.

Ron's entire will had been beaten by poverty, from his simple raiment, cheap, frayed, and threadbare, to his worn and gut-strung lute. It was a shame really. His family had once been one of the most prosperous and important allies in the War of Erin. But with the conquest of Gryffindor and the Weasley family's refusal to abandon their stance and their loyalty to Harry's blood kin, so they had lost all prosperity, all wealth, and as an even greater punishment, his family were ostracised from all Slytherin nations, offering no chance of recovery without breaking their bond they had lost so much to keep. Their loyalty was stirring for Harry, but he often questioned if they had done the right thing with regards to their own wellbeing.

Dean Thomas on the other hand bore not the ambiance of one as misfortunate. Clad in garb that was not affluent, but certainly nowhere near as an exhibition of scarcity as Ron, Dean's family had abandoned Gryffindor after her fall. Or so was believed by the those who had remained steadfast and openly loyal. But as seen in his garb of purple linen, threaded with gold strands, and his fine reed recorder. His family had merely acted out of necessity. Gryffindor was dead, the landscape had changed. But they had remained loyal none the less, acting more as spies and informants in high places, rather than some of those rats who had fled the battlefield at the first notion of defeat.

Harry nicked his finger on the edge of his sword and he suppressed his gasp of pain, sucking off the blood. Harry scolded himself for thinking that way about those who had once been loyal to his family, as his mentor had often told him too. War was a terrible thing, and the will to survive was strong in most beings in this world. Though the prospect of disloyalty was a mentality Harry Potter struggled to understand.

His mind centred back to the woman he had seen in the square in an hour much earlier than now. He had been intrigued the moment his eyes had settled on her. Lithe, with such a wealth of chestnut tresses he had felt a longing to feel that thread cascade through his fingers. Lust was a strange notion, and it could sometimes mascaraed as love, as it had with a number of women in his more, promiscuous, years. But as the girl had begun to sing, and the crowd had grown strong, he smiled at this unknown woman, and her seemingly carefree love for life.

He wondered who she was. If she was some street singer, or some storyteller in one of the simple peasant villages that peppered this simple holdland of Erin. Who was she? He asked to the Gods, not sure why he was so intrigued. But there was something about her that had him curious, and that, in itself, was an uncommon circumstance for almost any woman in Erin.

As Harry began to polish the edge of his sword with the whetstone, this the second stage of sword maintenance, so he listened to the words Ron began to chant to the song he and Dean offered to the winds. It was the strange, elven, tongue. A language of beauty and mystique. Ron had learned the song from the ancient Elf songstress Rinnah, she of the Songsweet voice, and though Ronald, so Harry believed, did not possess the same trill or glory of his tutor, he could sing, and it was glorious sometimes.

He closed his eyes and listened to the music. His curiosity to understand the words and the girl with the equally sweet voice, offering a strange sense of purpose to the otherwise unhurried warrior.

 _I am a woman of Balnain  
The folk have stolen me over again  
The stones seemed to say_

 _I stood upon the hill, and wind did rise, and the sound of thunder rolled across the land.  
I placed my hands upon the tallest stone and travelled to a far, distant land.  
Where I lived for a time among strangers who became lovers and friends_

 _But one day, I saw the moon came out  
and the wind rose once more.  
So I touched the stones and travelled back to my own land  
and took up again with the man I had left behind_

Harry's eyes opened slowly, ceasing in his work to gaze at Ronald and Dean, they of whom seemed completely unperturbed by the voice he was _certain_ had spoken amidst them. It was a strange voice, an ethereal voice, lilting, with a sing-song tone that sounded strangely like the woman's voice he had been so curious of.

"Did… did any of you hear that?" Harry questioned of his companions. Ron ceased in the picking of his lute with an air of annoyance. Harry knew how much Ron hated to be disturbed when he was in a flow. Dean however, continued to chime his recorder for a few more notes before he stopped, the ebony skinned musician looking curious and intrigued.

"Hear what?" Ron snapped, it was not gruff, more an expression of irritation. Harry's brow knitted.

"You didn't hear it?"

"Well I heard Ron singing…" Dean said with a smile. "He was doing really well until you disturbed him."

"No…" Harry chimed in protest. "A woman's voice, a girl's voice."

Both Ron and Dean offered each other knowing expressions of understanding. Dean reached into the pouch which draped across his frame and tossed Harry a purse full of silver shillings.

"There's a good brothel near the back of the Leon Gate Road at the centre of the district. You'll find your woman's voice there." Dean jested with a chuckle.

"No… guys I'm being serious." Harry protested, certain he had heard a voice, a woman's voice, that fair singers voice.

Ron palmed his face and shook his head.

"Harry. You've not been with a woman for more than a month. You're love drunk. Go, get some relief and maybe you'll stop hearing these siren women calling to you." Ron and Dean erupted in joyful laughter as Harry fingered his brow and looked down at the purse of sliver in his hand.

It was true. He had not been with a woman for a while. Maybe he was just a little pent up from duty and his role in the longed-for liberation of Erin.

It could do no harm to try.

Harry placed his half-sharpened sword back into its scabbard, itself resounding with a resonance of war, before he bade his friends fine words of departing and thanks, and setting off in search of sexual relief.

That strange voice still so clear in his mind.

 ** _Author's note_** – _The song used in this chapter The Woman of Balnain is credited to Bear Mccreary and was once again sung by the amazing Karliene Reynolds. Their music is a major inspiration to this story and as such Hail to the King is as much a FanFiction in tribute to their work, in as much as it is to J.K. Rowling's work and her own amazing accomplishments. If you like the song, please support the owners and artists in any way you can. Thank you and I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please don't forget to let me know and review._


	6. The Maiden of Dean

Chapter Five: The Maiden of Dean

The little town of Dean was a quiet village, every day following the same recurrence of tasks and duties that made up its modest, provincial, existence. It was a simple town, full of simple people who each woke up at the sound of the crier to offer words of greeting and set about their daily lives. It was a town Hermione loved, but also found so utterly and dismally dull.

It had been three days since her first trading day at Gaela and her heart was aloft with dreams and delights that made her appear dazed and distracted to the other villagers. She wondered the town in the fawn toned dress her mother had given her the previous Yule, complete with her apron of white cotton that was stitched with many pockets, into which Hermione could hide her books should any soldiers enter Dean at any unexpected moment.

She wandered with an ambiance filled with imagination, eyes closed and will aloft with dreamy recollections of the amazing tomes she had purchased from the Ceallach. They were wondrous, full of adventure, fanciful tales of Elves, of epic battles, lustful siblings – which had been rather disturbing to her at times – and mighty, handsome, heroes.

Though it was an accepted and often deemed peculiar activity by the people of Dean; Hermione being so highly learned was very rare for any girl beyond the capital and the allied cities of Erin. Her reading was something the villagers themselves did not find dangerous. After all, what reason did the Inquisitors have to visit there tiny, insignificant town? But books and education the likes of which Belena had shared with her daughter was a state of mind that was deemed a risk to the sovereignty of the King and his allies.

However, Hermione's heart was too aloft with joy to be concerned for the unjust laws of the Sovereign, instead she pulled her newest fairy-tale out from the pocket of her apron and began to revel in its pages once again, relishing in the words until she came to her favourite part in this particular tale. It was the moment when the hero, hopeless and broken in the dungeon of the evil Death-Lord, meets his future beloved. But she already knew he would not know that the golden-haired beauty wasn't to be his fated one until the fourth chapter in the chronicle.

Hermione pressed the book lovingly to her breast, sighing in heartfelt longing for she too desired to meet a charming prince who would take her away from this poor, rural, village and bring her to a castle filled with magic and offer her a new life full of adventure and passion. She longed for a love like the one she saw shared between the mighty lord Aragorn and his lady Arwen, whose tale of true love and his matchless ventures, she was already reading every night in her bed by the light of her candle flame.

Hermione wandered through the village market, absently offering her friend the baker a few brass penny's in return for a few slices of spiced bread. With a swoop and a graceful stride the beauteous dreamer continued her longed search for any kind of excitement to her regular, dreary existence.

The madam of the village Boutique stopped in her pinning to admire her through the window of her shop. Hermione's long, chestnut tresses and fine countenance was an envy to all the other women who lived within this small township. Though such admiration's were lost on Hermione, for her gaze centred on her book while others wondered why she was so odd, and what it was that she found so delightful in something as simple as the written word.

She was so different from the rest of the people of Dean, was their dear Hermione Granger.

* * *

On the outskirts of Dean, Gren and his ever-present knave Knecht rode their horses up onto the crest of the hill overlooking the village of Dean, where it resided on the edge of forest that bore its namesake.

It was not uncommon for Gren to pursuit a maiden he desired far from Gaela and it had taken only a few crowns to learn where the textile trader and her daughter had haled from. He wore the expensive doublet of black leather and golden embroidery he had purchased from Hermione's mother at an extortionately low price, the same day he had been wooed by her daughter's exquisite beauty. It had been down to him and his coin that had seen the girl's family experience such a low and unprofitable trade. No one ignored him, especially not some whelp of a girl with too much brains to realise the beauty she also had been blessed with.

He observed her through his luxurious Prismáticos before handing them in turn to Knecht, he of whom observed her with a look less of longing, but more of admiration for her charm and bookish appeal.

Gren had been obsessing on Hermione ever since she had come to Gaela. It was a notion Knecht could not understand. Gren had a wonderful woman with a family of delightful children waiting for him dolefully at home. As a now long suffering eunuch Knecht could not contemplate why Gren would be so frequently unfaithful. But he had been the man's squire for longer than truly he could remember, and loyalty was a disposition he could not shake, even for someone as unappreciative as Gren.

"So…. Beautiful…" Gren said, hissing forth the words like the longing he felt in his loins. "She will be my greatest conquest yet."

"Master… I do not believe she is-"

"What? Good enough for me? Probably not. But you cannot look so lovely without attracting the attention of the real men."

' _Real men respect their ladies wishes and do not stray'_ Knecht offered in silent rebuke to his masters overly exacerbated sense of worth.

"Perhaps it would be best if we leave the lady to her reading? She seems so… odd?"

"Yes… she is perfect, isn't she? Such an enigma, such a fair and guileless maiden. She will make a fine mistress for me here in Dean."

A mistress? That was a troublesome title. For when Gren choose a mistress that woman would often become the pet of his Masters more … _debauched_ desires. It seemed this girl had made quite the impression on Knecht's ever lustful employer. He just hoped the girl had as much integrity as he had seen through the Prismáticos.

"Come!" Gren put the spurs to his Friesian and lead he and Knecht onwards towards the tiny village of Dean.

Gren trotted his jet-black stallion forth along the cobbled streets of Dean with many an expression of lust intended towards Hermione. He rode his mighty warhorse on pass the boutique where the ladies at once rushed forth to offer waves of their kerchiefs, or expressed many a crimson blush as he offered them his roguish, knowing, glint in those delightful grey eyes.

It was extremely rare for a man of obvious wealth to come to their little town, and to be as utterly handsome as this man sent the simple women into hysteric blushes as his eyes glinted, and his smile twitched in pleasure at their admiration.

Gren stalked the marketplace like a predator stalking its sweetest prey as he tried to find Hermione through the crowds of villagers. He saw the long wealth of curls, the crimson and flux gold book cover and he straightened the lapels of his coat before sniffing the air in satisfaction.

* * *

Hermione smiled in wayward delight as the people around her continued their trading with many a babble and haggling. She was so strange but unknowingly special, a most peculiar young lady. Some of her friends even followed her with their gazes and expressions, contemplating what it was that made her act so different from the rest of them? She was nothing like the rest of them. A fine and fair beauty, but so utterly queer in regards to the village she had been born. So, different from the rest of their poor, provincial town was their lovely winter rose. Their dear, and gorgeous, Hermione Granger.

A hand suddenly plucked the book out of Hermione's hands.

The young learned girl wheeled, reaching for her tome to see a man she recognised, but whose name she could not recall standing lackadaisically, his eyes drifting languorously across her frame in a way that made her uncomfortable.

"We meet again, Miss Granger," The man, handsome, but with an air of arrogance she found most unbecoming, flashed her a winning smile. She could not recall this man's name, though she knew him from somewhere.

"Excuse me?" Hermione said, reaching for her book but finding it suddenly whipped away from her like a bully dangling a stolen possession before a weaker child. "Do I know you?"

That annoyed Gren almost as much as the feel of this book in his hand.

"Why, yes you do…" Hermione tried to grab her book again, but this time Gren turned his back on her and began to flick through the pages of her seemingly massive tome.

"How could you possibly read this? There's no pictures!" Gren whined in disbelief, himself not even educated in his letters, even if his father had tried to teach him them. What did he need to read for? He had his wealth and his looks, that was all a man needed to live by.

Hermione scoffed at such an ignorant dismissal of the joy of reading. Then, to Hermione's astonishment and distress Gren discarded the book to the earth with a carefree flick, sending the book cascading into a puddle of filth, like something one would toss forth from the nightly waste.

"How dare you!" Hermione hissed, falling to her knees and gathering up the tome to find the pages muddy and ruined. It hurt like a dearest friend had been attacked by a bully for no other reason than for being different.

However, Hermione's pain was not even noticed by Gren who merely stood over her and tried to flash her his most charming smile.

"Miss Granger this is most unseemly. A woman such as yourself should not be spending her time reading. It is not appropriate at all. Women should not have their own ideas… and thinking…" he shuddered at the prospect which made Hermione even more angry.

"Good sir!" Hermione snapped, standing to her full height and challenging this brute who had abused her newest friend. "You are utterly primitive and disdainful."

"Why thank you… Miss Granger." Hermione's jaw practically fell from her face. How could anyone be so stupid?

"Please… do not be so stunned. One such as I am quite the… how you say…? Primitive?"

"Yes, yes you are…" Hermione chuckled jestingly beneath her breath before this savage tried to weave his arm around her shoulders. Hermione instantly recoiled and drew back.

"Look… Sir! I don't know who you are, and if we have met before I can honestly say it must not have been joyous. Now please, leave me alone!"

Hermione turned on her heel and offered this brute a stiff back, before she wandered away from him with as much dignity she could muster in an attempt at flight.

Gren watched Hermione go, eyes drawn appreciatively to her lovely little bottom, and he knew. He knew he was getting to her, he knew he was close. She was just playing hard to get.


	7. The Three Brothers

Chapter Six: The Three Brothers

"Remind me again…" Ron said as he guided his common drought horse known as Errol along the Deanwood Lane beside his brothers equally more affluent breeds. Dean Thomas sat stationed atop his tall Clydesdale which he had affectionately dubbed Nimbus, while Harry sat astride his majestic Andalusian, his mount long being titled Felaróf. "Why are we heading to some outback village for little more than the point of getting drunk?"

"We're keeping a low profile," Harry said with deepest conviction. "It makes sense to hide from an enemy in a crowd, when he expects you to be far from them. Same as it is of equal value to take shelter in the quiet corners of the world when trying to traverse the planes in secret."

"I don't get why we haven't just returned to Hogwarts?" Ron whined in tedium as he reached back for the seventeenth time to reassure himself that his Lute was still present. "Have we not been exiled long enough?"

"We've not been exiled!" Dean Thomas snapped in protest, not appreciating the way their fellow brother was complaining. "We're on a surveillance mission. It's not like Dumbledore can plan a full-scale conflict without knowing something of the preparations of the enemy."

"He's bloody Dumbledore! He can do whatever he wants." Harry fingered his brow with a groan of annoyance for his oldest friends insistent complaining. He should have gotten used to this some years ago, ever since Ron had been old enough to understand his position in the world from where it had once been. But his constant nagging and needed to actually _work_ for a living now made Harry's teeth itch sometimes.

"Ron…" Harry breathed in a low hiss of warning. "Shush… We're out in the wild, we're out on a surveillance mission. Get over it!"

Ron glowered at Harry with a look of black resentment but did not voice any more words of displeasure. Though he continued to glare daggers into Harry's back as he rode with so much dignity it made his friend furious.

How could he ask him to get over the fact his family were now little more than scroungers, after centuries of wealth and prosperity? Loyalty was a trait that was sometimes a curse for those born to the former City of Gryffindor. He loved his friend, cared for him deeply. But if his stupid bloody father had more sensible Ron would not be so cold at the moment. He wouldn't be hungry more nights than most. He would not be out in some dank little forest, riding a cheap drought horse, when he was in deserving of a warhorse as grand as Felaróf.

Ron glared one last time at Harry, before he began to mutter and sing under his breathe.

Harry stiffened in the saddle of his mount as he caught the song Ron was striking him with, in his own retaliation for his rebuke. It was a horrible song, a propaganda against his family and a blight upon the name and honour of his father. Or so the meaning of the song his Godfather Sirius had told him during his years of flight from the terrible kiss of the Sovereign Kings Inquisitors.

It was called The Dornishman's Wife. It spoke of the vengeful strike of a wronged warrior who destroyed a fellow rival after the latter had raped the Dornishman's Wife. It was said by those who could inform him of his father's true nature, that the Sovereign King had requested the song be penned as a means of lambasting the honour of the Potter's bloodline. Many people who knew not the truth believed this song to be a celebratory ballad of honour and vengeful justice. Stating that if the Sovereign King should ever be wronged, he would bring forth his black blade from its waiting scabbard and smite that foe with the terrible kiss of his sword. Just as he had Gryffindor after… Harry shuddered at the fictitious attack on his fathers, his families, honour.

Ron couldn't have known the truth behind that song. Singer though he was. He would not attack him, Harry, knowingly with that terrible song. Or so the warrior chose to believe.

Harry snapped the reins of horse and set his mount forward into a canter.

Ron glowered after his friend, even his voice was an annoyance to him at the moment.

"Really… Ron?" Dean snapped at their fellow wanderer quite unable to believe that his friend would be so cruel.

"What? I was only singing a song! Am I going to be rebuked just for trying to cheer myself up? I'm cold, I'm hungry, I'm bored!"

Dean Thomas wiped his mouth with his hand and set his gaze after Harry as he disappeared from the companionship of his friends. Ron really could be an insensitive wart sometimes.

Harry came to the crest of a hill overlooking their destination. It was a small village, a tiny, provincial town called Dean. Fitting really considering they had taken the Deanwood road to arrive here and the name of his second companion. The town was one of the oldest in all of Southern Erin, existing as little more than a quiet little pocket of existence, quiet, humble and conformist.

He thought about the girl who he had seen in the square of Gaela some three moons by. It would be nice to meet a girl like her and just stay in a sweet little place like this, grow old. He chuckled at his lucid dreaming as he gripped the pommel of his _Sword_. No. There would be no fair maiden with wealth's of russet tresses for him. No little town. No simple life for Harry Potter. He had a duty to fulfil and it was for his family, if not his own desires, that he would see to it that those duties were completed.

"This… is it?" Ron asked in a shocked, cantankerous, tone as he and Dean came up beside Harry overlooking to valleys and the village. His whining was really beginning to grate on Harry, this time drawing an audible growl of annoyance from the young heir. "This place looks like a hovel."

"Would you expect to find nobles residing here?" Dean asked casually.

Ron glared.

"I wouldn't expect _rats_ to be living here!" Ron snapped in sheer outrage. This was uncalled for. This was unseemly to the point of outright humiliation. He was a former Lord of Gryffindor. Not some simple little peasant girl who had no hopes of betterment, let alone beings deserving of any.

"Exactly!" Harry snapped, finally having enough of Ron's irritability, and spurred Felaróf down towards the Village of Dean.

"I'm not a rat!" Ron called after him in disdain, but he sighed and asked the Gods for a reason why they hated him so deeply? Before driving his own heels hard into the side of his horse, and following his companions on towards this dump of a town.


	8. Song of Longing

Chapter Seven: Song of Longing

Hermione sat in her mother's textile chamber, absently spinning her bearers latest supply of wool. After she had wrought her gentle fingers to this thread, after this once coarse wool had been spun into a soft, silken yarn; so her mother would then ply the loom and thus bearer and offspring would have worked in tandem to create a brand-new piece of textiles. The sum of which should fetch just as good a price as the rest of her mother's work had done the previous season.

When the Fall came to Erin, so Hermione would be sixteen and thus old enough to marry a gentleman of standing, or perhaps a man, if she was fortunate enough, who would deem her as a partner, not only for pleasure, but a partner of his heart and accept the love she hoped to offer a man one day.

The prospect of her future matrimony both frightened and thrilled Hermione equally. Though as she absently slipped her fingers around the smooth, even, thread, the thought of marrying a man for any prospect other than love was slowly beginning to seem more and more like one of her fanciful tales, than anything based in the foundations of reality.

Erin was a hard country, its laws harsh and its Kings taxes even more so. People did not marry for love, not any more in this world. Those kinds of dreams were not becoming of one such as her, or so that brute, Gren, had said in the street earlier that day. Her reading and learned speech was enough to drive most _good_ men away from her at the opening introduction, seeing her as nothing more than a misfit, or a troublesome freak. A person whose education was to be shunned and ridiculed by those of veiled understanding. Or, for those of a more… _sensitive_ disposition, her learned nature could be taken as a threat to the sanctity of her future home, thus resulting in her imprisonment, or even worse the backlash of violence or her humbling beneath the will of her future husband.

A woman's _place_ in Erin was to be little more than a humble servant, a doting mother, and a brute's bed mate. Her spirit quashed beneath the weight of duty and chores, while her body was to be claimed and taken at her _lovers_ every wanton demand.

That, was the true way of a woman.

Hermione rebelled furiously against such unjust notions, her thoughts so enraged that it even began to affect the beauty of her work. Hermione allowed herself a low curse, re-treading the yarn to her spindle, and returning once more back to her calm, even self.

Her thoughts centred back to her mother, she of whom had not been present at dinner that evening. Instead, spending her time away on errands she was yet to confide in Hermione.

Something was troubling her bearer, Hermione knew her mother well enough to know this much. The ambiance of their household was not as joyful nor as light hearted as Hermione had expected after such a fine and profitable trade. Her mother was burdened by woes which, for reasoning's beyond her daughters understanding, her mother was safeguarding from her with a steadfast refusal to speak.

In the three nights they had come home for Gaela, during her times of evening indulgence, Hermione would often hear her mother weeping quietly through the thin walls of their abode.

This was most disconcerting for Hermione, for even when her mother had lost her companion, Belena Granger had not wept once for him.

Hermione wondered what it was that was making her so upset.

She wondered if she was finally beginning to miss her companion?

Hermione could only guess how deeply painful her parting from the man she loved had been for her mother. But in all the years since she had been old enough to recall, Hermione had never heard of mother shed a single tear for the man who had broken her heart. It seemed she had purged her former husband utterly from the depths of her heart. Their former lives as man and wife completely dusted from her memory and replaced with nothing more than the memory of his vial act of infidelity.

Hermione wondered if her future husband would also commit such a cruel and callous act upon her?

The loss of her husband could have turned Hermione's mother into a sinister and corrupt monstrosity. Belena, if fate had dictated, being more than justified with her partner's disloyalty to use it as a means of poisoning her daughter's ideologies of men and their lusts. However, her mother had been kind, honest, and open with Hermione when she had been old enough to ask her, why she had grown up without a father?

She had offered her words of comfort, insisting that not all men should be attacked for the crimes of a single soul. Her father had chosen his own path, his own road. It was just unfortunate for his daughter that his path had lead him away from his marital household into another woman's bed chamber.

Hermione would need to find her own path, as her father and mother had done before her. She had told her that all roads in life eventually came to a crossroads, a moment when all souls needed to make a choice. That choice would come to Hermione one day, as it came to all living things in this world. For to live in a world without choices was to exist in a world ruled by slavery.

Hermione wanted to believe that there was a man out there for her too love. A man who would be honest and loyal to her, not cruel and demeaning to her joys and pleasures. But if she would ever find this man was a matter not of time, but of fate. Not every woman, not every man, found that person who completed them; and though they may look forever, to seek without direction is to wander in darkness.

However, Hermione was growing tired of wandering. Her seeking had not borne her soulmate. So, for more than a year now she had slowly begun to resign herself to the prospect that a life of servitude and unwanted usage was the hand she had been given in life. It was not a vision she cherished, but it was the only respectable life of a woman of Erin who did not wish to be spurned as a spinster, or live as a woman who would need to make her fortune… _on her back_.

Hermione shuddered at the final choice fate seemed to have presented her with, her yarn spinning now long ruined and tears slowly seeping down her fine, fair cheeks. Wiping away the tears with the sleeve of her dress, Hermione offered one final prayer to the Gods. Hoping that they _would_ bring her a life of happiness, less they deemed her unworthy.

The urge to sing began to fill her heart, the words slowly drawn from her throat in a soft, haunting resonance.

 _You love me like a Winter rose,_ _  
 _precious and unusual_  
 _Blood red petals, kiss the snow_  
 _Resilient to cold__

The song was one her mother had chimed to Hermione during her youthful years. It was a song she would often sing when teaching her the joys of work and the necessity of thrift and trade. Hermione remembered, sitting on her small wooden stool, stationed between her mother's pins as she absently practiced her first few stitches. Her mother would sweep her bone handled comb through her long wealth of brunette hair and singing forth this very song as a means of affection and joy.

 _While other blooms are still just buds_ _  
 _I am reaching for the sun_  
 _You want me like a Winter rose,_  
 _a bloom you've never known__

Hermione sang forth her own rendition of her mother's work song. However, her voice was not filled with the sounds of affection that once been present in the voice of her bearer. No, Hermione's sweet chimes were laced with a deep, soulful longing. It was a song she hoped the man she desired would one day hear. Hoping that her kind and gentle prince would listen to the words of this song and hopefully hear within its lyrics her longing, heartful call.

 _You love me like a Winter rose,_ _  
 _precious and unusual_  
 _Blood red petals, kiss the snow_  
 _Resilient to cold__

Fuelled by hope and desire, a notion that had long been absent in her heart, Hermione tried to picture her prince. She saw long hair, dark as the raven wing. Knew his eyes were filled with a sense of honour and dignity, blessed with an air of graciousness only true nobility could possess.

 _And when my petals fade their red,_ _  
 _will you pluck my weeping head?_  
 _Or will you love me till the end?_  
 _Your only Winter rose__

Her dreams were so lucid, almost to the point of absurdity. But she knew from the depths of her imaginings that _this_ was her prince; and while she could not see his face, knew not even the colour of those eyes she knew held so many secrets, though she even failed to place a name upon the man she longed for. Hermione coveted his heart, felt her own begin to skip as her song slowly faded. Hope began to burn fresh and anew within the depths of her once rending soul. Hermione wished that should her soulmate ever hear these words, then he would somehow know that she was just and true, and know that she was seeking him with a strident yearning in her heart.

 _You love me like a Winter rose,_ _  
 _precious and unusual_  
 _Blood red petals, kiss the snow_  
 _Resilient to cold__

Hermione finished her song on the same line she had begun.

Hermione felt the stirrings of desire coursing hotly through her veins. Drawing in deep, steadying breathes so she tried to understand what she was feeling. She felt strange, strong, invigorated, hopeful, and she smiled in satisfaction so she nursed the embers of her hope had been saved from the deluge of stifling reality life's harsh waves had almost extinguished.

Hermione began to pack away her work yarn and spindle, when there came a sudden rapping upon the door of her family abode.

 ** _Authors Note_** – _Once more Karliene Reynolds lends her amazing talents to Hail to the King. This time in the form of the song Winter Rose. It is a beautiful piece, found on her album The Ballad of Anne Boleyn. This was one of the principle albums which inspired Hail to the King and the whole Legend of Erin cycle. I do hope you give it a try, as the album itself is beautiful and Karliene is just amazing as a Celtic and folk music singer. I hope you have enjoyed this latest chapter, and I hope you will honour me with a few reviews, as they always serve to offer inspiration and ideas. Thank you and May Your Muse Stay Strong. -_


	9. Trinkets and Challenge

Chapter Eight: Trinkets and Challenge

Hermione gasped when she opened the door to be presented with the most magnificent bouquet of blooms she had ever seen. They were splendid, roses of passionate red, pink camellias and white begonias. Even in the vague light of the evening Hermione could see that they must have cost an extortionate price.

The man who presented them to her was thin and wiry, carrying the air of someone beaten down into the humility of service. He had a long, narrow chin and a smile that seemed both forced yet good natured. A stark contrast of emotions that Hermione found troubling.

"A gesture from my master," Knecht said with a practiced tone of charm. This was not the first time he had been sent to charm one of Gren's conquests. It was a horrid situation, but less he be discharged Knecht knew the roll he must play in Miss Granger's seduction.

To his surprise, Hermione furrowed her brow at the sight of these extravagant blossoms.

"I'm sorry… but might I ask who sent you here?"

Knecht felt affection fill his heart for this woman. Her surprised and cautioned ambiance was so refreshing from the regular gasps of awe and swooning words of endearment his master had so often incited with this stratagem.

"Mr Gren Balch, Son of Lord Balch of Gaela. He wishes you join him for dinner this evening." Knecht informed, speaking Gren's request, wondering if the use of his master's full title would be enough to sway this young ladies affections. Knecht did not enjoy his part in his masters repeated infidelity, but he also knew how many ladies would swoon to his bed once his title and relation to the future mayor of Gaela were understood. If he did not at least _try_ to charm this lady Gren would be most displeased; and though he feared not his wrath, the extravagance that came with being associated with the Balch family _sometimes_ made the tasks of employment a little easier to justify.

To Knecht's surprise however, Hermione actually grimaced in disgust at the mention of his master's name. She shuddered as if presented with something ugly and unclean. Like a slug.

"Can you please inform that _brute_ I have no interest in his endowments. Also, I have the task of watching the daub dry on our walls. I feel that would be a much more pleasant evening that any spent in that man's company."

Knecht could not suppress his snigger at Miss Granger's damming eschew.

Her eyes returned to brightness at the sight of his smile.

"I mean no insult to you, good sir." Her words were gentle and apologetic. "I know you are merely preforming your duty. But I have no desire to be within fifty leagues of that oaf."

"The feeling is sometimes mutual, Miss Granger." Knecht said, confiding his disdain for his master in confidence. "I shall inform him that his pursuit of you are futile. However, I must confess he is most determined to woe your heart."

"I believe it is the joys of my frame he seeks to enjoy, good sir. Not the love in my heart."

Knecht offered Hermione his first true smile of the evening. This was a lady unlike anything his master had met before. He actually had hope that she would not be swayed beneath his parades of trinkets and high fortune. She was such a stark contrast to all the other women his master had sort to enjoy. Did he, Gren, really understand the challenge he had sent himself? Less she falter in her pride, Knecht actually believed this was one lady his master would not be able to charm.

But he also knew Gren was cunning in his lusts. He would not stop with something as insignificant as the refusal of dinner and a penny's worth of blooms.

Knecht tipped the brim of his Adler top, retracting the flowers and offering Hermione a kind, and this time, genuine smile.

"May the moon shine upon your destiny, Miss Granger." Knecht spoke his final words to Hermione, and soon swept off towards the Wood Grove, the village of Deans residential holding, and public house.

Hermione watched him go with a smile, until suddenly her heart was struck by the sound of the most beautiful voice she had ever heard. Her heart began to pound, not the simple, steady beat of normality, but a deep, vibrant drubbing. Hermione listened to the voice, strong, sexy and distinctly masculine. Beautiful and fair, but with an honour she believed only the Kings of Middle Earth, the kings of her beloved stories, could possess.

The words were alien, beyond the regular tongue but with a beauty dictated by centuries of craft. Her breathing hitched and she pulled her shore tight about her person, tightened her slippers on her feet, and set off to find the owner of that voice.

* * *

" _Et Earello Endorenna utulien  
Sinome maruvan ar Hildinyar tenn' Ambar-metta…"_

Harry spoke the ancient pledge of the elves, himself still seeking to purge himself of the terrible pain Ron's thoughtless singing had evoked in his heart. Felaróf trotted forth, his mighty mane tossed with a roll of its neck as mount and master strolled into Dean.

The _Sword_ of Gryffindor rested indistinctly at his side, itself forged from simple steel, burnished to such a degree that the steel was _almost_ indistinguishable from the Goblin's Star Iron.

If only in the eyes of humans.

The charms and wards placed upon the sword had held strong in more than a hundred battles, but Harry knew if he ever face the dreaded Reaper, held by Lucius Malfoy, the slayer of Gryffindor… Harry swallowed and suppressed his shudder of fear.

His eyes scanned the sweet, inconsequential village, itself little more than a Haven for those who dwelt within. Harry doubted any of them had ever seen real combat, let alone the full scale conflicts he had both won, and lost, in the hopes of liberating these people from the tyrant who had murdered his parents.

A sudden, irregular skip entered his heart and the sensation of being watched filled his core.

Harry's hand immediately went for the pommel of his sword, but found little more than lamp lights and darkness in the dead of night.

Harry slowly began to extract his _Sword_ from its sheath.

"Who goes there?" Harry asked, sounding as demanding as the King he had once been born to be. His blade was held at the ready, Felaróf too scanning the darkness in the hopes of sighting who it was that observed him.

Harry's eyes settled on a small shifting within the shadows, and felt his heart clamour in his chest.

* * *

Hermione observed the stranger with an air of intrigue and awe in her heart. He was wonderful, dark haired, with a strong jaw that cut a fine, fetching face. His eyes were princely green and his heart seemed to resonate honour.

Hermione gasped.

Beneath her dress, shore and chest, her heart seemed to be pounding deep within her body, seeking liberty and connection with this man.

What was this?

It was wonderful, it was scary, it was… tears entered her eyes as she watched the man's horse carry its master deeper into the village. She had _never_ felt anything like this before. It was as if she had been suddenly transported deep into one of her beloved tomes, when the fair princess had first set eyes on her handsome prince.

No… that was ridiculous.

People did not fall instantly in love like that. Not in the real world.

Hermione tried to shut of the emotion, shut out the pain of realisation, that she was just enthralled. This man was so obvious married. A man like this could have any woman he wanted, let alone someone as simple and belittling as she. This man would never even look at her, let alone _ever_ fall in love with her.

Hermione scolded herself for these illicit dreams, but suddenly struck something loose in her shadowy drove.

The handsome stranger suddenly reeled.

Swift, graceful and fluent, the man drew his sword from deep within its scabbard and Hermione suddenly gasped at his assurance and demeanour. This was a man accustomed to swordplay. This was a man fluid in the arts of war, and resolved in the act of death dealing.

That kind of poise could not be forged, could not be played upon like the swift fraudsters who came to Dean looking to sell their stories of combat for little more than a swig of Ale or the swooning awes of women.

Hermione felt herself tingle with a new, more primal emotion.

"Who goes there?" The young man asked, sword now held high and proud. Brandished not as a threat, but a promise of defeat for any and all who challenged him.

Hermione felt her heart skip once more, felt her throat contract, her soul sing at the sound of his voice… and stepped out from behind the shadows.


	10. The Strangers From Tanélon

Chapter Nine – The Strangers From Tanélon

 **Author's note** _\- Hello dear and hopefully patient readers. I do apologise for the appealingly long delay there has been with the updates for Hail to the King. I have been engaged in deeply personal matters, which have both now been resolved to my satisfaction and should now hopefully offer me enough free time to carry on with my passion without hindrance from deeply troublesome and annoying individuals. There should be a number of updates following this in the coming days, to which I hope you will find each of them both interesting and enjoyable. I thank you all for your patience and i hope I haven't let anybody down. Thank you and please enjoy._ **\- Paige The Harmony Lover**

Harry felt as though his heart had suddenly skipped a beat. His stomach turned a somersault and his throat bulge as he swallowed when slowly, from amidst the veil of night which enveloped the village of Dean, so stepped the delicate form of a striking maiden. She was fair of face, with a long veil of chestnut hair which rippled across her shoulders in a lustrous cascade. Her gaze was deep, driven and with a sheen of wisdom that bespoke education and refinement, while her features bore the fetching grace of a lady but with the course vigour of a more courageous and officious creature. Harry was certain he had seen this maid before. She seemed almost like...

"Forgive me.. good sir I did not mean to startle you." The woman's voice was gentle, regal but with a trace of accent Harry had seldom heard this far south. It was northern, a resonance almost as that of a lionesses tone. The young maid stepped forward before entering into a courtly greeting that would have rivalled even the most beholden of ladies at the court of Lucian.

"My name is Hermione of the Dean Settlement. Might I bid you welcome to her simple holding, esteemed guest?"

The gesture was entirely shocking for Harry to behold. For such etiquette was not acquired from a few moments of humble practice, such a stately bow took years of rigorous trial and drilling for even a most highborn of ladies to perfect. Yet… this seemingly non-genteel lady had offered him the gesture almost flawlessly.

Harry's emerald eyes glinted at the stately repose. He smiled, sheaved his sword and dismounted from the back of Felaróf.

Harry stepped forward, stride filled with grace as he offered her his hand in greeting.

"Be not apologetic, on beautiful Hermione... For a thousand unknown disruptions would be worth even a stately price to gaze upon such a comely face."

Hermione's cheeks flared crimson. She gasped, startled at the gentleman's outrageous flattery. It was the kind of thing Hermione would have expected of a king, or at least a prince, to his noble queen or courtesan. Not a simple peasant girl such as she.

Harry took Hermione's hand gently in his before lifting the her delicate fingers to his lips to which he brushed them gently with a soft, chivalrous kiss.

"May __I__ introduce myself? My name is Harper Protea of Tanélon."

"Tanélon?" Hermione frowned, the name so strange, so utterly unfamiliar to her. "Forgive me... but your city is unknown to me... are you of the north?"

"The West... fair maid. And I am glad my city is unknown in such parts of our land. For the people of our city are humble, unlike..."

"Our King..." it wasn't a question.

Hermione's contemptuous tone made Harry eye's glint with reprieve. Clearly this was a woman who saw Lucius Malfoy for what he truly was, the tyrant that had enslaved all of Erin since his conquest of Gryffindor, and not the divine-born Sovereign his evangelists depicted him to be.

"Your King... as said, great lady."

"Oi!" Ron's disdainful voice suddenly resounded across the darkness prompting Harry to seal his eyes closed in repose. Of all times for his brothers to arrive.

"You rode off and left us you git!" Ron snapped, dismounting Errol and charging his long time friend. Ron shoved Harry hard who regained himself with elegance before offering his crimson hair friend a glower of open disapproval.

"Redowas... please. Compose yourself. We are in the presence of a lady."

"Lady…?"Ron's brow furrowed, clearly confused. "I see no lady."

"Mhm Hmm!" Hermione cleared her throat, a note of clear vexation coming from her lips at the impertinence of this uncouth person.

"Yes?" Ron said, dismissively.

"This..." Harry said, stepping forward and placing a comforting arm around Hermione's shoulders. " _Is_ the lady in question Redowas."

Ron sniggered, mockingly.

"Leave off, mate." Ron snorted, Hermione's brow furrowing deeply, followed almost at once by his friend. "She looks more fit for the stables than a court. You a milk maid or a ale wench here in this sty,? I could do with a tankard and a romp."

"How dare you!" Hermione snapped, her words resounding at Ron's thoughtless comments, even drawing a look of disgrace from Harry. "I'll have you know that I am neither a milk maid nor a common tavern harlot! Good sir." Hermione snapped, turning to round upon Harry with a face akin to thunder. "You, are a most humble and esteemed gentleman, I am pleased to have met 'you' at least. But if this is the way the." Hermione turned and regarded Ron with disdain. " _gentlemen_ of Tanélon behave then I am pleased your city does not enjoy such a vast and illustrious reputation. I request you do not dwindle long, good sir. For we do not take kindly to lubberworts in Dean."

Hermione left her final words with a sneer towards Ron, before she turned on her heel and strolled from the collection of strangers with a strong and dignified repose.

"Dignified and eloquent as always, eh Ronald?" Dean Thomas said with a chuckle, stepping up to slap Ron heartily on the back.

"What did I say?" Ron gaped, thunderstruck. However Harry's attention was not on his oldest friend, who at this point in time he considered spiking his tongue to the very floor of the village. His eyes were centred on the retreating maiden with a strident sense of longing rich in the depths of his heart.


	11. A Hearty Welcome

Chapter Ten – A Hearty Welcome

The door to the village Tavern opened with the chime of the visitors bell. It was such an unexpected tone that it drew a number of eyes from the villagers, who had all been settled into their evening tankers to sight the newcomers.

The three strangers stood in distinct glimmer as Ron drew back slightly at the suspicious looks their trio garnered from the patrons of Dean.

"Tough crowd." Ron breathed, inconspicuously beneath his breath.

"You expected maybe a Martigra?" Dean sniggered, stepping forward and leading the trio towards the innkeep as he stood in observance behind his waist high bar. He was a porky man, more food than liquid indulgence, but his eyes were sharp and his brow nettled.

"What'll it be?" The innkeep said, gruffly.

"Beer." the ebony skinned Dean said with a smile.

"I'll have a mead." Ron snapped with a stately retort, to which the innkeeper raised his eyebrows mockingly.

"Mead's not served in these parts. Too much trouble for too little a return, we got a special brew though, if ya feeling lucky?"

"Typical..." Ron puffed with a snort. What the hell was he doing in a place like this? Didn't even have mead! "What's in your… _special brew_?" Ron asked with intrigue, though his question drew a number of dark, mocking chuckles from those who sat in close proximity to he and his compatriots.

"If I told ya that. It wouldn't be special now, would it?"

Ron's brow furrowed at the rebuke. But something in the innkeepers words stayed his normally fiery temper.

"I'll… Stick with the beer." Ron said, back peddling on his insulting rebukes.

"Good choice." Grinned the innkeeper, toothily. "And you?"

Harry cast hiss gaze up from the bar, to which he had been observing keenly, though lost in his own musings than through any inspection.

"Beer… as well, please." The innkeepers smiled once more.

"Rosmerta! Three beers, one extra chilled, we got a parvenu 'ere tonight!"

"Yes papa!" Came the sweet, trilling tone of a girls voice resounding from beyond the kitchens.

"Parvenu?" Ron mouthed to Harry, drawing a mocking gaze from both his peers.

"Honestly Ron, don't you listen to anything they teach us at Hogwarts?"

"Of course I do!" Ron blared within the boards of their company. "I'll have you know Professor Lupin is most pleased with my latest improvements in arms and practical defensive training."

"Only because Harry took a stumble on the spokes, Ron. If it wasn't for that you and I both know he would have come first in that exam."

"Oi! I earned that medal! Fair and square!" Ron snapped, crossing his arms and glowering at his friends.

Harry smiled gently at Dean, who in turn winked in triumph for their hazing. Ron was so touchy when it came to his rare exam victories. Yet even Ron could not know the reasoning behind what had caused Harry's loss of balance when settled upon the spokes that day.

"Excuse me, sirs." The three men turned.

Ron felt his loins surge as a bosomy wence came forth towards them, her right hand laden with a tray containing three full tankards of freshly tapped beer. The other placed at her hip, which cocked in a wanton expression of flurtation.

"Three beers. One extra cold."

Rosmerta was a pretty thing, maybe only a few years older than the travellers themselves. Sweet, with her hair adorned in a long set of ponytails, both which fell down her back in a duo of golden silk. Her body was modest, curvy enough to be womanly, but tapering to a thing waist and ample rump, concealed by a small, too small skirt..

Ron was instantly set upon by lust.

"Here you are, good sirs." Rosmerta said with a giggle as she leant forward to place their beer upon the bar. Ron's hand instantly went to her hip, to which the young wench offered him a smile of promise.

"You looking for something else, Simony?"

Harry and Dean palmed their faces as Ron sniggered darkly, running his hand along Rosmerta's waist and towards her legs, coxing, enticing.

"Maybe..."

That was the ageless acceptance of sexual _service_ in Erin. When a wench offered 'something else' it could be interpreted as anything. But when the term 'Simony' was used, it took on an entirely different meaning. For in most regular situations a Simony was a person devoted to providing 'spiritual' indulgences in the name of the King. But in taverns and for harlots all across Erin, a Simony was simply someone who provided money for the 'indulgences' of their body.

However, one simply do not say 'yes' when requesting such service, for to be so abrupt would be seen as a disregard for the woman's 'virtues' and even be seen as a blight upon the harlots family name, her values, or even an insult to her kindred's morality. So the term 'maybe' had soon been adopted, as a way of acceptance, without the implied stigmas placed upon common frequenters of such 'services'.

"There's an alley just out back of the kitchens. Go right out the front door and wait there for me. I'll be along in a giffy."

Rosmerta smiled at Ron, face now raw with carnal promise before she turned and walked away, an added careen found to the shapely sway of her hips as she wandered back towards the kitchens.

"Ooh… boy. I'm in for a good night." Ron breathed, exhaling sharply as he turned back towards the bar and took a long draft from his beer. It was cool, frothy and surprisingly satisfying.

"Ron... what the hell are you doing?" Harry breathed, lowering his gaze to talk above his tankard. "We're suppose to be laying low."

"And…?"

"How many travellers accept 'service' not even after one beer? You're bound to be remembered as desperate."

"I'm not desperate!" Ron snapped, his outrage threatening to draw more unnecessary attention, much to the dismay of his friends.

"Quieten it down!" Dean hissed trying to appear inconspicuous. "What's done is done now, Harry. If Ron doesn't meet that wench we'll be remembered even more so as a knocker, which you and I both know would never happen with a looker like that... To be honest… I may give her a go once I've had a few more drinks. This beer is actually really good. Better than the beer we had in Gaela, anyway."

"Can we not talk about rolling with that tavern wanton, please brothers?" Harry sighed, wallowing back into his tankard as both Dean and Ron chuckled.

"You not find a woman to replace your siren woman at that whore house?" Ron asked, sounding genuinely perplexed.

"No… I put the money back into your saddle bag."

"Why?" Ron asked, confused.

"I think a certain… _articulate_ has charmed our dear brother. Eh, Harry?" Dean said, raising his eyebrows suggestively at his raven haired friend. The knowing tone of his voice drew a dark glower from Harry, but that gaze only served to entice a triumphant smirk from Dean.

"I'm going for a wander." Harry snapped, drawing himself away from the bar with an air of sheltered retreat.

"I think she went west!" Dean called out after Harry when he finally reached the door. Harry glared at his friend, hand resting on the rim of the door before he breathed, shook his head exasperatedly, and exited the tavern.

"What's up with him?" Ron asked, confunded.

"Marthe blues." replied Dean.

"I see no bard." retorted Ron, knowing the meaning behind the term. Dean caressed the now slowly aching pain in his brow, resolved to Ron's cluelessness, before he breathed and began to savour the taste of his beer.

Ron joined him for a few moments until Rosmerta appeared once again, eyeing Ron with a slightly irked expression.

Ron started at the sight of her. How on earth could he have forgotten?

"I'll be back in a minute..." Ron said, in hushed conspiracy to his fellow wanderer.

"Better be more than a minute, if you want to get your money's worth." Dean japed.

Ron snorted at the rebuke before offering Rosmerta a wink. She returned the gesture with a cock of the hip as she turned back towards the kitchens, Ron heading out of the tavern and heading towards towards alley where Rosmerta conducted her 'business'.

Ron caressed his length through the layers of his britches, itself already beginning to stir at the thought of the oncoming pleasure it was about to receive. Perhaps Harry's decision to lay low in this hovel of a town might not be such a terrible decision after all?


	12. Siren's Song

Chapter 11 – Sirens Song

Harry paused in his trek before the large stable barn of the Dean Settlement. Itself more of a lodging for travellers than a place to house ravel horses, the barn had been altered long ago to lodge up to twenty travellers, be it very lightly stocked travellers, which was exactly what Harry and his fellow wanderers were in the guise of.

He sighed, taking in the villages rustic appeal, a stark contrast to the urbanised cities that had begun to grow amongst the once fair planes of Erin. When his parent's had sat on the Gaian Council they had fought to implement laws that restricted the ever leeching nature of the cities, in a bid to protect the lands natural resources and maintain the once stark beauty of Erin.

However, lord and lady Gryffindor were long past, their son left as nothing more than an errant fraud, ostracised from civilised societies and wielder of little more than a cheap forgery of the true symbol of their legacy.

Harry felt anger, rage and grief all surge within him at the remembrance of his parent's demise. Why? Why had be only been a child? Why couldn't he have protected them?

With a growl of frustration Harry wheeled away from the barn, symbol of his true desires for peace and simplicity, and turned back towards the main circle of the tiny village.

Harry cast his gaze back towards the tavern, his eyes seemingly travelling to the ally Rosmerta frequented almost instinctively. There, he could just make out two figures, grinding and romping against each other within the shadows of the slop lane.

' _Very dignified, Ronald.'_ Harry thought to himself, turning away at once and retreating in any direction his feet would take him away from the thought of his best friends carnal 'delights'. The fact that Ron could roam from town to town, bedding merchants wives and temple maids made Harry sick, not with envy, but more out of regard for the women he charmed. Some had even tried to follow him back to the Artful City of Hogwarts, when he had been foolish enough to confide in them the true nature of who, or more, what he was.

But as the name of the city implied. Hogwarts did not merely reveal itself to any and all peoples. But that did not prevent some love drink maid swooning about in a stupor when some, unfortunate enough to allow Ronald to take them back with him, were struck by the Eternal City's shields and mind numbing charms.

He really did not understand sometimes, the fool. Simple peasantry, except under extremely rare circumstances, were not permitted within the boundaries of Hogwarts. For the common Muggle folk were not infused with magic within their blood, and thus could not handle the rigours that would be placed upon them if accepted into the vast holdings of the city. For magic was the very foundation of Hogwarts, and if one did not have Magic steeped within the very depths of their veins, one could not hope to survive the even the air of the city, let alone the trials and tribulations that awaited them once accepted beyond the city gates.

Harry found himself somehow trekking west along a tiny section of prone grassland. He had wandered instinctively away from the simple feel of the village and out into the very depths of the forest belt that encompassed it.

He found the night air to be cool, laced with a soft perfume of spring, which was common for the rapidly approaching season.

Every year the spring equinox used to be celebrated as an annual festivity, depicting the praise and thankfulness of the people of Erin for the Earth Mother's rebirth. Now, however, Spring was little more than another time of year, a time where only the King was to be praised, and his will itself that allowed the sun to pass over and the crops to grow once more. It was ridiculous.

How could people believe such nonsense?

The raven haired wanderer suddenly stopped, pricked his ears and listened. There was a voice, issuing across the shadowed air. It was a beautiful voice, soft and beseeching, but with admiration not pleading.

The voice resounded, a woman's voice, gentle and ethereal, speaking words he could not depict, but knew he had heard that voice before. It was the same voice he had heard in his musings only a few days prior.

"Who are you?" Harry called out, suddenly weary as he caught snatches of what the voice was saying.

" _Gaia… pammḗteiran aeísomai..._ "

 _I will sing about the mother of all, the well-founded and eldest_

" _Gaia pammḗteiran aeísomai..._ "

The voice came forth from between the trees, ghostly and celestial. Calling to him, drawing him deeper within the the depths of the forest, following the enchanting tones as the words ravelled themselves back into the unknown language of the true nature of the song.

" _ēmen hósa chthóna dian epérchetai ēd hósa pónton..."_

The woods and trees of which he past began to grow more ominous, more foreboding with every step he took. Yet despite the obvious augury that struck his logical qualities, Harry continued to edge deeper into the depths of the dark, and leering forest. Enchanted by this songstresses silvery trill, and desperate to know who it was that could sing to beauteously and with such rapture and repose.

 _I sing to she who feeds all creatures, all and as many as they are. For she is all that moves on the trusty land, and all that dwell within the depthless seas, and all things that fly within the heights of the heavens. All these are fed from the abundance of her wealth._

" _Gaia… pammḗteiran aeísomai..."_

Harry say a soft, gentle light slowly reveal itself from within the gloom and glower of the forest. It was bright silver, a tiny pinprick of light which shimmered and glowed like an ghostly depiction of beauty. It drew him closer, the soft, silvery light suddenly becoming as soft and yet as bright as starlight.

Harry slowly drew himself around the trunk of a simple cider tree and gazed into the very depths of the ethereal glow.

The voice resounded from deep within that light, draw him closer, enticing, tempting.

Harry stepped out from beyond the trunk of the tree behind which he had stood in silence. Himself suddenly lost to the and lure of the song.

A flash of emerald light illuminated the air, Harry felt himself reel as the emerald jet streaked through the air towards him.

 _ **Authors Note**_ \- _The song used in this chapter is, I think, the first one I've used in this story that had not previously been sung by Karliene Reynolds. Instead the Pagan Folk band Faun make their debut in Hail to the King with their amazing song Gaia. What do you guys think just happened? Let me know with a comment or a review, and we'll see if you can guess. I hope you all are having a great and stress free end of year, and I wish you all well for the coming year ahead. I know we're still a month and half away but this year has gone so quickly for me. Where has the time gone? Thank you so much you guys for your continued support, it means so much to me._


	13. A Mothers Pledge

Chapter 12 – A Mothers Pledge

Harry froze, reeling as he felt a roaring beast surge past his cheek and beyond the tree he had just cleared. His heart beat a frantic rhythm against his chest and his hand went instinctively to the hilt of his sword, but knew that he would have drawn the weapon a split second too late. If the person had intended to kill him, then they most certainty would have, had their aim been true.

Shaken from his near demise, Harry saw the light before him slowly dissipate, unveiling a woman, but a woman far too old to be considered any kind of bedmate. She was tall, refined, with an elegance and grace that put him in mind of the cultured maid who Ron had irked upon entering the village of Dean. But where the fair, young maid had a wealth of chestnut tresses, this woman's hair was short, fashioned into a shapely and surprisingly fetching pixie cut.

"Who enters the shrine of the Earth Mother? Speak, or my next shot shall claim your life. Speak!" She even had the same voice as the maid, though older and more taxed by age and hardship.

It was uncanny.

"I… I mean you no harm." Harry said, pulling his hand slowly away from the hilt of his sword and offering sight of his palms in a gesture of peace and trust. "My name is Harper Protea… wanderer of Tanélon."

"Tanélon…" The woman said, breathing the name slowly as if in some humble revelry. Then her suspicious grew deeper and it was then that he saw that the women held in her hand a long, Elmwood wand, which she brandished with all the force of one trained in the arcane arts. "What does the eternal city want with me? I am no longer in league with your guild nor wish to endure the strife's of this land. Are you here to bring me back to that war and conflict? I tell you, young Guildsman, I was dismissed from that city without expulsion and under no defection of trust."

"Madam mage… I tell you no lies. I knew not your affiliation, nor do I long to commit anybody to conflict under sufferance. Though I will compliment you on your skill with such arts. To release a Killing curse so close to a person, and not strike them down with tendrils of death, is a feat I've only heard attributed to the most skilled and gifted of Spell Wielders."

The madam elder grew a slight shade of crimson at the compliment.

"You are most charming, Guildman Protea. You swear to me, on your guild name, that you bare no ill will towards me or my kin?"

"I swear on the lion of valour that neither you, nor any of your kindred, are in any danger from I or my men."

"A Valour Knight?" the woman said with an air of pride and unity in her voice. "Then you and I share more than a Guild bond, fellow Valour Kin."

Belena then drew back the sleeve of her right arm, unveiling a single, crimson and gold tattoo of a lions head, encircled by the reborn flames of a phoenix. The marking of the Valour Hall and Sigil of the Valour.

"Belena Granger, Former Paladin and Protector of Valour Hall. In regard to you I offer my courage, my sword and my strength… Harper Protea."

Harry stared, feeling his knees weaken at the mention of the woman's name. Belena…?

"You… are?"

Belena smiled at the awe she saw in him, though it was most unfitting of herself to do so.

"I hear the effigies of me are much more flattering than the woman's true visage. Is this not so my friend?" Belena said, before she swept herself low, in a true and courtly bow. It was the same gesture as made by that girl, the fair maiden who had charmed him earlier that evening. The same bend at the hip, same swooping sway of the arm. She had to be…

"Madam Granger… have… I must ask… Is there a second person who bares your blood, your grace and your name?"

"A second?" Belena said rising to cast a gaze of pride upon the Valour Knight at the mention of her child. "Yes, my daughter, Hermione. For what reason do you ask?"

"Because..." Harry breathed slowly, remembering the young woman and how the sight of her hand sent him reeling with delight. "Because… I have already..."

"Ahh… you also I see." Belena said with a soft, dejected sigh a she turned and folded her hands over her heart. "Yes. I'm afraid my daughter becomes more a rose with every passing evening. It is a curse I fear. For she is both fine of visage, but also rich in mind. These things do not make her very comely in the eyes of the _Muggle_ men."

"A woman such as your daughter deserves more than just a life of upkeep and breeding, Madam Granger." Harry said sternly, though he knew not why he had risen to Hermione's defence so swiftly. Belena measured the young man with her gaze, scrutinising, assessing. Finally she let loose her breath and resigned herself to acceptance.

"Yes… I agree Lord _Protea_ …" She said though her words were spoken as one understanding of aliases. Though if she knew of such wisdom or his true name, she did not speak of it. "Strange really… I always felt I could offer Hermione a life more fitting than the one I left behind at Hogwarts. Yet as the land around us grows weaker, and the Sovereign King grows more daring. I often wonder if I did the right thing keeping her in such an innocent state of mind."

"She is far from innocent, in the ways of her words at least." Harry said, with an air of reverence as he remembered Hermione's scathing rebuke of Ron less than an hour ago. "But as you say. Erin is growing weaker with each day Lucius Malfoy is allowed to reign unchallenged. I must ask, do you still wield Mighty Joyeuse. For in times such as this Hogwarts could use that blade and its divine light to lead up in battle."

Belena cast her gaze down to the earth as if in remembrance of some long buried by unforgotten anguish.

"Nay..." her words issued forth with grief on her tone. "Joyeuse was broken before The Battle of Foltest. It's shards scattered after I had fallen prey to an ambush of Death Eaters… myself given over to them by my once lover of yore."

"Helscum!" Harry spat, the words a vicious renouncement to whoever the curse was intended. Joyeuse…? Scattered by the Death Eaters after so many great and glorious victories? And Belena… betrayed by... Her words disgusted him, not for disbelief, but at the prospect of betraying anyone so viciously as her lover had she.

"My… sympathies… Great Paladin." Harry said gently, seeing the pain the loss of Joyeuse still evoked within her. "In comfort however, I say, that both yours and Joyeuse's names are still sung with renown even to this day in the Great Halls of Hogwarts."

"A small… but welcomed comfort. My friend." Belena said with sorrow in her voice. Harry turned to observe the glade into which he had stepped, seeking any kind of point to draw her away from the memory of Joyeuse. He saw that a large stone rested in the centre of the glade. A great monument depicting a single, carved ruin in the surface of a large, oval stone of amethyst that shone and glimmered in the moonlight. Harry recognised the stone as a shrine of worship.

"For what do you pray for, mighty Belena?" questioned Harry. Belena sniffed, whipped her nose with the cuff of her sleeve before composure returned to her soul and she turned back towards the alter stone.

"I pray to Gaia, the Earth Mother. For I seek her provide me and my family with food for this seasons spring."

"Are your stores not plentiful this season?" Harry asked, concerned.

Belena drew down her gaze and breathed.

"Nay… I have been in deep financial difficult since my failed trade in Gaela. My wears were unwelcome and unusually criticised this season, and most of my stock was sold to a brutal tradesman who would not meet my price. Even though most of the wears he bought were worth six times what I sold them for. But I needed to make some kind of price, even if just to pay for I and my daughters abode."

"Have you no fare? No means of sustenance and warmth?" Harry asked, concern now growing deeper for Belena and her kin.

"Warmth, yes." Belena chuckled. "I have all the blankets and quilts I dare need. But fare and sustenance… I'm afraid not. And so I come to Gaia to seek her aid."

"Mighty Belena..." Harry said gently, reaching beside him to take a small purse of silver from his belt. "I have neither endless riches, nor needless wealth… But I can offer you this as a token of thanks for the inspiration you have given me. Since taking my place in the halls of Hogwarts stories of you and your victories have captivated me since boyhood, please, take this. It is only a small thing, but it is the least I can do."

Belena turned her eyes gently towards Harry, observing him with a soft, sidelong gaze. Harry saw her eyes drift slowly to the purse of silver, before she observed his haggled tunic and harsh spun britches. She cast her gaze towards the heavens and exhaled a sigh of deep self-loathing.

"This indeed a harsh time… My friend, when elders must accept charity from children." Belena breathed deeply, before reaching forth in acceptance of the purse. It fell into her hands heaver than lead and even more burdensome. "I swear to you, my lord. I will reimburse you."

"No need, Madam Granger. I merely-"

"No!" Belena snapped, with a tone that startled Harry. "If this is charity without repayment then I must refuse." Belena then offered back the purse in return, with an air of one presented with an unseemly and unwanted gift. Though she continued to speak, her voice rich with pride and strength. "I promise you, if I accept this token, Lord _Protea_. The Line of Granger shall be indebted to you, I and my blood, tied to you as friends and huscarle's, until this debt is repaid."

Belena pledged herself to him, gesturing to her fellow Valour Kin with the sign of fealty. Harry stared, unexpectant of such a deep and indebted pledge. For to be a huscarle was for the line of Granger to lay down their lives in protection of him, his lineage, and all things dear to him with no regard for themselves or others. It was a pledge that bound not only Belena… but her daughter to him as well. Could he accept this? Was thirty pieces of silver truly worth this much to her?

Harry knew that Belena would not accept charity… and to refuse her oath was an insult of the highest degree. He thought about her and her family, she and her daughter left with no food, no means of survival even in spring. It was a thought that troubled him greatly, and even if Belena's pledge reeled him, he could not see such a kind and noble family struggle and starve.

"Then the line of Granger… shall be held most esteemed within the heart of all Potters. May you and your kin shine with my pride."

Belena exhaled with a sigh of relief as Harry spoke not only the oath, but relieved her suspicious as he spoke his true name. For he could not use his alias in acceptance of her oath, and now she knew who he was, and an air of pride and honour, a feeling she had long forgotten, settled over the former protector of Valour Hall.

There was no surge of bonding between Thaine and Huscarle, as the fairy tales so often liked to depict. But for Belena Granger her word was her oath, and her oath was her honour, and her honour her life.

The new huscarle gestured to her new Thaine with regard before allowing him to lead her from the shelter of the glade. Though as she walked Belena wondered how she was going to inform Hermione of the new life she now expected to lead.


	14. The Orders of a Thaine

Chapter 13 – The Orders of a Thaine

Hermione's work song, her song of longing issued out from the porch of her family abode as she sat in waiting for her mothers return. Where was she? This was so unlike her. When she, Hermione had retreated from the uncouth travellers, nay, _traveller_ from Tanélon, she had come to her family larder to seek comfort in sweetness. Yet, the pantry held no sugar grain, not even flour stock or even bread to indulge. She was shocked, had her mother not purchased their supplies from apothecary? Clearly not. But her reasoning for such a strange situation forced Hermione into a tarn of concern.

Why had mother not purchased their food stuffs? Had the trade season in Gaela been not as successful as she herself had come to believe? No, that could not be possible. Hermione herself had helped her mother repack all of the wears they had been left with, and a sizeable amount of stock was missing in their return. So unless some thief had lifted the supplies from their plot, which would be almost impossible given the size of the missing wears, then she knew her mother must have parted with them willingly.

Yet… why were the pantry and cupboards so bare?

Hermione stitched a new summer shirt for her mothers next trade, or she could hopefully sell it in the village as a way of putting some kind of stock back into the cupboards. Hermione heard footfalls coming from the east and her gaze turned to sight her mother coming back from the woods, with the refined stranger from Tanélon in toe.

Now Hermione was worried. It was well said that women who enter the forest this late did so only for _unsavoury_ means. Though still young and pure in such acts Hermione had heard enough stories of Rosmerta's _antics_ to know never to frequent the forest after dusk.

' _And with that gentleman none the less!?_ ' Hermione hissed internally, though she didn't know why the thought of her mother ordaining physical relations with this man, if not any other, hurt her all the greater. Why? He was nothing to her. Clearly she had been right when informing him of the uncouth vagrants that hailed from his city. Yet she had hoped that _he_ at least was beyond such acts of iniquity. And with her mother of all people!

"Mother, I see you've returned." Hermione hissed, voice sharp and edged with pain.

Both Belena and Harry reeled at the accusation in her tone. This only serving to reinforce their guilt.

"I'm sure you and this..." Hermione cast a scathing looking at Harry. " _Man_ wish to talk. I'll leave you to your wears."

"Hermione…" Belena tried to speak, realising how her exiting from the forest with her Thaine must seem. Clearly she had been informed of the dark nature of the forest, yet had not learned that many came there to pray to the earth mother in her natural domain. "Please… it's not-"

"I am no simpleton, mother!" Hermione snapped, forcing herself up to her full height, words laced with venom as she eyed her bearer and the fair, handsome stranger. "What affairs you seek to keep from me are your own, I know this much. But do not question my intelligence, nor my knowledge of such things. I leave you now… _mother_ ," the word slammed into Belena like a vicious whiplash. "With your new client. And you sir."

Hermione cast a seething look at Harry.

"I see I misjudged you. Though you speak fair and with flattery on your lips, I see it does little more than charm much more…" Hermione cast a dark gaze back towards her mother. " _Suggestible_ women. I see that all the men of Tanélon are as your companion. Uncouth, unsavoury brigands-"

"Hermione! That's enough!" Belena snapped, rounding on her daughter with fury in her eyes. "Speak of me with your fallacies if you wish. But you will _not_ insult our Thaine!"

"Thaine!?" Hermione snapped, cackling with mockery at the honourable mantle. "I have no Thaine. Is that what you call yourself mother? When engaged with men _my_ age? You believe yourself some honourable huscarle, instead of a common, wanton whore!?"

 _ **Smack**_

The sound of mothers palm striking her daughter resounded through the darkness. Hermione reeled, held her face in shock as she cast her gaze hurtfully upon her mother. What had happened? Her mother never struck her, even in times of conflict, when words were flung far greater than those she had just spoken. Her mother _never_ struck her.

Belena too looked set to cast off her own hand in disgust as she looked towards her daughter with a pleading, desperate gaze. How could she have done that? Strike her own child. Yet her insults had grown to deep, an insult to the honour of her Thaine… a Thaine never laid with whores. Only… those he deemed worthy of him at the moment. An insult to him, was an insult to her oath, and an insult to her oath was an insult to her name. Even if she who cast such insult, was she who bore her blood.

"Hermione… Hermione I… I'm-"

She couldn't say it. She could not apologise, even if deep down in the very depths of her soul she wanted to.

Hermione backed away, suddenly wary, before she turned and fled back into the house. The agonised huscarle sealed her eyes closed with deep disgust, as her Thaine stared after her. Himself just as stunned as Hermione, and even more as pained.

"You need not… hold yourself to me…" Harry said, realising that Belena had done what she did, not out of discipline, but out of regard for him and his honour. "The bond between mother and daughter is sacred, Belena… I… I do not wish to break that for the sake of a meaningless debt."

Belena breathed deeply, steadied her already writhing soul.

"My Thaine..."

"Harry." he corrected, already uncomfortable with the title.

"… Harry. What is meaningless to you, is disgrace to me and my kin. I see you are kindly, a good and gracious man. But… It is I who swore myself, and my brood to you, and I will serve you as deeply as the oath decrees. I… and my daughter, will rekindle in time."

Harry hoped to heaven that Belena was correct.

Belena continued.

"Do you have lodgings this evening, my Thaine?"

"Harry." the young man insisted once more. "And yes, I stay at the village lodgings, the barn at the heart of the square."

"Then I shall come with you. Stand guard while you sleep."

"No!" Harry ordered, realising now that Belena was serious, utterly serious in her word and steadfast in her duty, her oath to serve and protect. "I need, no I ordain you, regain yourself in the eyes of your daughter. I will not have myself disgraced by breaking the bonds of family. That, is my order huscarle, if you wish to serve me well?"

Harry felt bile fill his throat at the words he had been forced to use. How could he order someone to rekindle themselves with their child? That was a basic human right. Yet he felt no different to how he might feel, if he wielded such power as The King. The thought of Lucius Malfoy wielding even greater power than this, did not bring him comfort at all.

However, Belena Granger gazed upon her new Thaine with gratitude and regard. She knew, in that single moment, that she had made the right choice in choosing Harry as her Thaine.

"You are as honourable as your father, my Tha- … Harry. I thank you for your honesty, and I hope to see you with my daughter beside you, when our time comes to leave this place."

Harry blinked.

Leave? Did that mean she would?

"Belena… I-"

" _Please_ …! My Thaine. I must conduct myself before you. May I be permitted to begin your task?"

Belena sounding almost to be pleading when Harry cast his gaze out to the world around him. Seeking knowledge, seeking guidance, seeking anything to tell him what was right. But all he had to guild him was his heart.

"You may." Harry said, forcing the words out of him once more, though this time strong and sure of voice. "Conduct yourself well, my huscarle."

Belena Granger nodded and strolled towards her home. She cast one final look back at Harry, her Thaine, wanted so desperately to thank him for his words. But decree spoke not of thankfulness, only duty. But this was a duty she could most willingly preform.


	15. Pledge of Fayth and Honour

Chapter 14 – Pledge of Fayth and Honour

Belena came to her daughters room to find the door bared and sealed to her entrance. Softly her knuckles rapped, once, thrice upon the heavy wooden seal, only to receive the sound of silence and the whimpering of sobs from within.

"Harmony…?" Belena called forth, speaking the pet name that so endeared mother to daughter. "Can you hear me? I… I'd like to-"

"Go away!" Hermione hissed, though her words were pain riched and soaked with tears. "I do not want to speak with you."

"Harmony, please… I want to-"

"Go away! Go where your wanted, Mother! Go to your _Thaine's_ chamber if you must. Just, Leave. Me. Alone!"

"Hermione… please!" Belena said, her voice now laced with desperate appeal. "You must listen to me… I… I did not lay with Ser Protea. I… I have named myself his huscarle..."

Silence.

Belena rested her brow against the frame of her daughters chamber seal, fist clenched with hope as she waited for her daughter's response. Hermione was wise in lore and honour, duty and regard. She must know the meaning of a huscarle and the duties to which her mother was now enthralled to.

She waited… and waited… But no response came.

"Hermione… please..." Belena sobbed, hoping that her daughter understood her actions, understood why she had laid hands on her, when she had never wished such before. Still, Hermione left her mother with nought but silence and longing in her heart.

Moments passed by with nothing more than cold emptiness between mother and child. Finally, Belena resigned herself to acceptance and turned away from the door. She entered her own sleeping quarters, once only a walls space apart from her child, now a seemingly eternal rend between them, and hastened to her closet. There Belena pulled out her most practical of carry sacks. It was fashioned from beaten oxhide, durable and never used since her coming to Dean. It was the sack she had worn during her years of service to the Eternal City, when she had been sent to traverse the plans of Erin in search of ways to defeat the seemingly omnipotent Lucius Malfoy.

She began to fill the sack with a number of different raiment, a wool-lined coats for the harsh winters of Rifthold. Heavy britches fashioned with layers leather to prevent rainwash and sores if they were to trek through the marshlands of Argor. Belena knew not where Tanélon now resided, the Eternal City an ever changing realm of stone an arcane force, augmented by magic to prevent those of Muggle Birth from entering the walls.

It was here, after filling her sack with necessities, food would be purchased at a later time, so Belena pulled from the dregs of the closet her most hated of garments. A long, black leather war-coat. It was her symbol of death, a garment she would only wear if unjust blood was to be shed. She considered leaving it behind, the war-coat had never been adorned before, but as the old rhetoric once said with regards to all things, possessions superstitions and whims of faith: one will always be in need of that which they once had, when they have discarded such things in times of foolishness. With such wisdom in mind, Belena gripped tight the trench coat and stuffed it into her bag,

Next, Belena knelt down to the bottom of the closet and opened up the secret compartment she had requested be forged into the base. Here, she pulled out her private storage chest. Forged from rustic wood, Belena had forbade Hermione ever to snoop within her closet with the hopes of concealing this chest from her. It was sealed by magic, but with her daughter as wise as she was, Belena had taken no chances. She had hoped to never open this chest again, but now, with her pledge to Lord Potter, the time had come to open it once more.

With a wave of her hand the chest opened. Belena sealed her eyes closed to steady her will, before casting her gaze down into the depths of her past.

The chest was filled with trinkets, portraits, raiment, jewellery and a number of bright shards of gold.

The elder woman reached down into the depths, pulling out a number of these items, the first and foremost a single portrait of a kindly and wizen looking old man. His beard was silverly white with eyes of shimmering blue. The old man smiled back at Belena as she cast a gaze of endearment upon the picture. It was worn with dust, and somewhat ruffled, but as she cleared the dust away from the portrait so Belena began to sing. Her voice was no longer as fair as her daughters, and her words were pained, but as the old man's face came into view the elder woman couldn't help but feel endearment fill her heart.

 _The Father's face is stern and strong,_

 _he sits and judges right from wrong._

 _He weighs our lives, the short and long,_

 _and loves the little children_

Belena set the picture of the old man down upon her dresser, smiling affectionately at the picture before slowly reaching behind the portraits frame. Here she extracted a second piece of parchment. Unfolding the paper Belena revealled a single picture of her daughter. Here, she caressed the charcoal drawing, itself smudged and worn from its years of concealment. But here, Belena knew this would possibly be the last memory she had of Hermione, and such tears of agony and regret began to seep from her eye as her voice choked with pain on her next words.

 _The Mother gives the gift of life,_

 _and watches over every wife._

 _Her gentle smile ends all strife,_

 _and she loves her little children_

Belena placed the picture inside the breast pocket of her sheepskin before steeling her resolve and reaching back into the depths of the chest. Here she pulled out a two distinct armaments: A single pale blue sword: Chillrend. Forged as a substitute to her beloved Joyeuse, Chillrend was similar to her original companion but with a blade of pale blue frost instead of her beloved's glimmering, pearlescent sheen. Though the shield she placed at her arm was of Joyeuse's original steel. Golden and glinting with the minute shards Belena had mangaed to salvage of her companion, both were forged from Elven Malachite and though Chillrend felt not as wholesome in Belena's hand, the former Paladin could not help but feel the rush of war return to her soul, as the thought of combat returned to her once again. Belena placed her fist over the breast pocket of her coat, Chillrend gripped tight in her hand as she continued her song.

 _The Warrior stands before the foe,_

 _protecting us where e'er we go._

 _With sword and shield and spear and bow,_

 _she guards the little children._

Here, Belena sang not more, had nothing more to sing.

Placing Chillrend at her waist Belena cast one last look at herself in the mirror. She was old, worn and she could see time beginning to etch at the corners of her eyes, while age flecked some strands of silver into her once rich, dark hair. But with a final surge of determination, the bearer of Harmony placed the purse of silvre she had obtained from her Thaine on her dresser. Hermione would be in need of it where she would not.

There, stepping out of her quarters and opening the door to her quite little shack, Belena Granger cast one last look back at her home, turned her gaze beseechingly towards her daughters chamber door and felt a hollow sadness quiver her throat.

Belena swallowed her sorrow, cast a prayer of prosperity to her daughter, and tuned away, leaving her home forever.

OoOoO

Hermione lay trapped in her void of inner turmoil, curled into a ball of anger and spite as she deliberately ignored her mothers calls for truce. How could she do this? How could she strike her? Her, her own child?!

The thought enraged Hermione, the streak of red that stained her cheek more a burning smite than a blemish. How could she…? How could… she?

Quivering into a ball of sobs so Hermione came to assess her feelings. At first she had thought it was the strike that had incurred her wrath, and though the shock still burned her face, so Hermione came to reflect on what it was that had evoked this radical shift in herself. Lost to nothing more than her thoughts, Hermione began to realise that the reason for her anger was not the pain in her cheek, but more an unusual pain she felt in her heart.

She had hoped that the gentlemen: Harper Protea, could have been different to the other vagrants who often traversed into Dean. Many, if not most of them men who travelled to her village, would often head to the Tavern to drink, become rowdy and frequented Rosmerta for an evenings 'delights'. Which, Hermione agreed, was entirely their own freedom of choice. But the thought of such men seeking to lay with _her_ was a notion almost unimaginable. Men had never given her a second glimmer when they had entered the village, always captivated by Rosmerta's easy nature, or the other girls rustic charms. None who came here were interested in bookish, overly impertinent Hermione Jean Granger. And the only one who had been was that uncouth degenerate, that foul braggart: Gren.

That was where Harper Protea had been different. Where she herself had been different. She had liked him the moment he had entered the village, not loved, but had found him both physically appealing and intriguing, educated, charming and polite. A prince in a world filled with wastes.

Yet, it seemed even a prince like Harper Protea could not find time to enjoy her company, and instead had frequented with another, which she would never deny him, but why… why did it have to be _her mother?!_

It was then… only then that she realised…

"Oh… Gods! I'm jealous!" Hermione palmed her face and wept as she realised that she was now jealous, not only of Rosmerta's attention and beauty, but jealous of even her own mother's physical appeal.

"What is wrong with me!?" Hermione hissed, wondering why she was feeling this way. She had never been jealous of anyone before, but as her body had begun to ripen she had begun to notice that she was looking at, not only herself, but those around her in a much different light.

"Why…? What's going on!?" Hermione curled herself into a ball and held onto her knees. Wondering what it was she was feeling. Wondering what it was that was happening to her. She had shed her first blood at thirteen, and now, nearing womanhood she knew she would need to find a man to breed with. But she did not want to _breed_ , she wanted to _love_. Hermione sealed her eyes shut and began to pray. Pray to Mara, pray to any of the eight divines to help her understand.

"Oh Mara, Goddess most pure, and Shandar, chaste guardian of the Goddess, to you I entrust the purity of my soul and body. I beg you to plead with Akatosh for me that I may never forgo my soul with any sin of impurity. With earnestly I wish to be pure in thought, word and deed, in tribute to your own sinless life. Obtain for me the deepest modesty, of which I will bare forth upon my frame. Protect from sin my eyes, for they thus bare my soul, and dim from them the flames of luster. For I am a servant of Mara, and I long for my heart be forever guarded against the sins of unwarranted pleasure. Let my heart and soul only be offered in love, and that my body be not claimed by none but he whom I must love. This is ask of you, and to you I beg. Oh loving Mara, Goddess of Love. So mote it be."

Hermione shook as she felt her heart burn with the presence of Mara. The Love Goddess had heard her prayer and at once she felt her soul lift with the power of the divine. Hermione listened deeply as a voice filled her ears, a beautiful, etherial songlike voice.

Mara's Voice.

" _Live soberly and peacefully, my child. Honour your parents, and preserve the peace and security of home and family. Your Goddess accepts your pray, and seeks your peace with she who bore you life."_

At these words Hermione shuddered as a single memory returned to her, the sound of her mothers final pledge while Hermione had left her lingering beyond her quarters.

" _I have named myself Ser Protea's huscarle..."_

Hermione gasped in fright and shock. This could not be the last words she shared with her mother. She would not let her mother serve Ser Protea with the notion that her daughter hated her. If Ser Protea was in need of a huscarle… then she herself would also take up the mantle, either beside her mother, or in her mothers stead.

Hermione hastened to her feet, dried her eyes and fixed the ruffled creases of her dress.

Ser Protea may have claimed her mother as huscarle… but Hermione was determined to stand beside her.

 _ **Authors Note – Hello one and all. Sorry again for the appealingly long delay. But it seems no matter how I try to get ahead of this story something always seems to pop up and delay my updates. I do hope you enjoyed this chapter. I know it wasn't the heart to heart talk I was pretty sure most of you were expecting. But one thing I've tried to do with this story is keep you guessing. Also, I find it very rare from other authors who try to write young people, who don't really take in the emotional effects of puberty on the characters. This is something I've tried to convey here in this chapter. I myself remember being very bitchy to my own mother, even in times when 'I' was in the wrong, and even though Hermione is brilliant, wise, beautiful and just… well Hermione; she is still a young woman and 'far' from perfect. So I hope you enjoyed this little take on her character here and if you'd like to see more twists like this please let me know. The song used in this story was (as you may have guessed) sung by Karliene Reynolds and is called Song of the Seven. If any of you like any of the songs I use here in this story, please consider supporting Karliene. Her music is amazing, and I deeply think you will be delighted with her work. Thank you so much, and please don't forget to review. -**_


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